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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005810">The world is forever changed by you, even if you die on Monday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorak188/pseuds/anorak188'>anorak188</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Another Six Year Seperation, Brief Suspicion of Human Trafficking But It's Not Real, But They're Too Stupid To Do Anything About It - So It's Just Like Canon, Clarke Adopts Madi But It's Weird, Co-Parenting But It's Weird, Drug Addiction, F/M, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Raven And Murphy Have History And It's About To Get Ugly, Role Reversal, Why Yes I Did Cameo Two (Technically Four) OC's In This For No Reason Whatsoever, Will Becca Ever Learn?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:14:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorak188/pseuds/anorak188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is her father's daughter - right down to what got him killed. She's walking a fine line with the government already, trying to make the most out of her time before her trial by working in one of the poorest districts of Arkadia. Clarke knows better, she does, but when a brother-sister pair come in to her clinic, too sick to go back to the streets but too scared to go to the hospital, Clarke takes them in.</p><p>Meanwhile, as part of her contingency not to be executed, Clarke's boyfriend, Wells Jaha, son of the Chancellor himself, invites her to a prestigious gala where tech genius Becca Franco will be revealing new technology to solve humanity's problems. As if attending an unnecessarily expensive party wasn't bad enough, Clarke has to face her mother for the first time in six weeks. Execution might be easier.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, John Murphy/Raven Reyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Poverty tends to lead to crime. Crime takes away the trust of your fellow man, leaving reformed criminals without a helping hand to get them out of poverty. So they turn to the only thing they know how to do – be criminals. It’s a never ending cycle.</p><p>Clarke rips the paper covering off the bed, careful not to touch the blood to the exposed skin above her gloves. She gets down the container of CaviCide wipes and wipes down the bed. While the vinyl dries, she strips her gloves and washes her hands, then checks her data pad for her next patient, praying it’s something minor. There are only so many stab wounds you can stomach to stitch up in one day.</p><p>Her next patient is a sixteen year old girl named Octavia Blake. Her birthday is listed – April 14, 2133 – but not her Arkadian identification number. Clarke frowns. How could you forget your identification number? The tag hangs around your neck on a chain, always.</p><p>Clarke alerts the nurse that she’s ready for the next patient, then sits on the stool in the exam room and waits, scrolling through the rest of the girl’s information. Blood type – unknown. Vaccinations – unknown. Even the address has been left blank.</p><p>The nurse opens the door and Clarke doesn’t have to look twice to see that this girl is <em>very</em> sick.</p><p>Her skin is white as a sheet, her dark hair and blue eyes intense against the lack of color in her face. She walks hunched over, hands shaking, and has a nasty cough, deep and rattling. She’s wrapped tightly in two blankets despite it only being early fall. But what disturbs Clarke most of all is the boy who follows closely behind her, never letting go as he helps her onto the bed.</p><p>“My name is Dr. Griffin,” she introduces herself. “I can see that your name is Octavia, is that correct?”</p><p>Her voice is hoarse. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Great. I’m not seeing much information in your chart here, Octavia. Have you been seen in this clinic before?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “No.”</p><p>Working in the poorest district with the highest crime rate in the city meant learning to work on little information and asking no questions. Everyone had a secret to hide. But some questions must be asked. “Well, I do at the very least need your immunization record. It’s mandatory for infection control.”</p><p>She wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “I don’t have one.”</p><p>“Okay. We can figure out how many you’ve had by when your last vaccination was. Do you remember how old you were when you had your last one?”</p><p>“I’ve never had one.”</p><p>The boy tightens his grip on her shoulder.</p><p>He looks at Clarke. “We’re not here for immunizations. She just needs some cough syrup or something.”</p><p>This better not be what she thinks it is.</p><p>Clarke looks up at him, trying to put on a smile. “And what’s your name?”</p><p>He crosses his arms over his chest. “Bellamy.”</p><p>“Okay, well, Bellamy,” Clarke stands. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside while I do the examination.”</p><p>His demeanor shifts into anxiety, but not the cower-in-a-corner kind. He stands up straighter and takes a half step in front of Octavia. “What? Why?”</p><p>“Privacy laws. Since you’re not her father, I’m afraid I cannot share her private medical information with you.” She opens the door for him, not taking no for an answer. “I’ll send her out when I’m done.”</p><p>He stops as he passes by her. “I’m holding you to that.”</p><p>She forces a grin and shuts the door behind him.</p><p>Clarke turns her attention back to Octavia. She takes the stethoscope off her neck. “I’m just going to have a little listen, okay?”</p><p>Octavia nods.</p><p>“Deep breath.” Crackles. She moves the stethoscope. “And again.” Crackles. “And again.” Crackles.</p><p>Clarke takes off the stethoscope and feels for the lymph nodes under her jaw. “Octavia, I have to ask, who is that man?”</p><p>She looks away, unable to meet her eyes. “He’s a friend.”</p><p>Clarke nods, checking her ears. “Where’d you meet him?”</p><p>“I’ve known him all my life.”</p><p>“Family friend, then?”</p><p>“He’s more than a family friend.” She manages a small smile before breaking out into a coughing fit. “He’s everything.”</p><p>Clarke smiles. “Would you mind turning around for me and letting me check behind your ears and your back?”</p><p>“Behind my ears?”</p><p>“I’m looking for a rash that sometimes presents with what I think you may have.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Octavia turns around and faces the wall, and Clarke lifts up her hair, which is greasy and choppily cut, and looks for strange tattoos or marks. In her short time working at this clinic, she’s seen her fair share of human trafficking, and she’s not about to let one slip through her fingers.</p><p>“I don’t see anything,” Clarke says. “You can turn around now.” Just because there’s no tattoo doesn’t mean there aren’t problems here. “Given your lack of vaccinations, I think you’ve got the flu. Most worrisome though is you definitely have pneumonia, which we need to get on top of ASAP. I would like to direct admit you to the hospital so you can get IV antibiotics.”</p><p>“No, no.” She hops down off the bed, nearly falling. “He’ll never go for that.”</p><p>Clarke intercepts her on the way to the door. “Octavia, if you’re in trouble with him, I can help you. I <em>will</em> help you.”</p><p>“What?” she shakes her head. “No. No, I’m not in trouble.”</p><p>“I know he doesn’t seem like a predator, Octavia, but they never do. His behavior isn’t right. I’m trying to protect you and get you out of this situation.”</p><p>“A <em>predator</em>?” She shakes her head and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.</p><p>Another one lost.</p><p>Clarke sighs and makes her way to her nurse’s desk, watching the pair storm out of the clinic. “I want an alert put on her,” she says. “If she shows up to this clinic or the hospital, I want someone to page me, any time of the day or night. She’s got severe pneumonia and on top of that, I’m afraid she may be a victim of human trafficking.” Clarke watches the pair leave through the waiting room windows. “I tried to intercede and now she won’t let me treat. It’s such a delicate balance.”</p><p>“If she shows up again, do you want me to call the police too?”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head. “Not yet. They’ll run if you do. We need to separate them first.”</p><p>She makes a note on her pad. “Got it.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not long before the same pair show up to the clinic again, except this time, Bellamy carries Octavia in. Her head is half limp in the crook of his arm, her limbs dangling from his arms. She doesn’t attempt to speak or move, she just lies there, eyes half shut.</p><p>“Where’s the doctor?”</p><p>Clarke recognizes the voice with relief, knowing she has another chance to save the girl, until she notices her extreme lethargy. She doesn’t wait for the nurse to take their details, she’s out the door of the exam room and meets them in the lobby. “Octavia. Octavia, wake up for me.”</p><p>“She’s been like this since last night. I didn’t know if she would make it until the clinic opened.”</p><p>“Sit her down.”</p><p>Bellamy lays the girl on the floor of the lobby, her head resting on his lap. He runs a worried hand down the side of her face, brushing back her hair. “She can’t breathe if she’s lying flat.”</p><p>“Okay.” Clarke gets out her stethoscope, but she doesn’t need to listen to know what’s going on, the stethoscope only confirms it. “I’m calling an ambulance.”</p><p>“No,” Bellamy says, putting his hands on Octavia’s shoulders.</p><p>She’s just about had it with the pair of them. “Her lungs are filling up with fluid. She’s drowning. She needs an ambulance. This isn’t a negotiation.”</p><p>He intercepts her hand just as she reaches for her phone, his grip tight around her wrist. “Don’t. They’ll take her.”</p><p>“All the better,” Clarke mumbles. She jerks her hand back, looking him dead in the eye, not letting the fact that he’s twice her size intimidate her. “Let go of me.”</p><p>He tightens his grip on her with one hand and grabs her phone with the other, throwing it across the room, shattering it.</p><p>“What the hell is wrong with you?” Clarke scrambles to find her shattered phone, praying it’s only the glass, but despite her efforts to turn it on, the screen stays dark. She marches up to him. “She’s dying. Can’t you see that? Why do you keep bringing her here if you want her to die?”</p><p>His voice matches her fever pitch. “I don’t want her to die! Can’t <em>you</em> see that?”</p><p>Clarke crouches down in front of him. “Then you have got to let me help.”</p><p>“No hospitals.”</p><p>She takes a deep breath, trying to avoid yelling again. “Why. Not?”</p><p>His voice is quiet as he repeats the same line. “They’ll take her.”</p><p>Clarke puts her palms on her forehead. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you got into sex trafficking.”</p><p>His eyes go wide and he looks angry, very angry. Maybe she should’ve toned it down a little. People like this are rarely unarmed. “<em>WHAT</em>?”</p><p>She holds her ground. This isn’t about her life. This is about Octavia’s. “Am I wrong?”</p><p>He looks hurt. “Very.” He touches her face gently. “She’s my sister.”</p><p>Clarke can’t believe what she hears. “No one has a sister. You know the law.”</p><p>“She is. DNA test me or whatever you have to do to believe me but please, just please don’t take her to a hospital. They’ll have her taken away or killed for being an Unregistered or leave her in a back room to die. I just – I can’t let that happen to her. I swore it. To protect her.”</p><p>Clarke is pretty sure a set of twins came through the clinic at separate times, but beyond that, she’s never seen a set of siblings ever in her life. Her criminal records gnaws at the back of her mind. <em>That’s not entirely true</em>. Arkadia is on its last legs and population control is the last attempt to manage it. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to have a sibling, but to have family who is not your parents seems to be a special thing, and she doesn’t know if she has the heart to see them separated. Bellamy’s right. The hospital will just leave her to die.</p><p>What’s one more law broken?</p><p>“Okay,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Pick her up. Follow me.” She turns around to the nurse on duty today, a perpetually tired older woman named Jenette with an over-it-all attitude. “I’ll be escorting them to the hospital myself. Divert any patients to Dr. Jackson. I’ll be taking the rest of the day off. And probably the rest of the week. You know what? Just say I’m on vacation.”</p><p>Jenette flips the page of her magazine. “Whatever you say, Dr. Griffin.”</p><p>Had Christine or Mark been here, Clarke couldn’t pull this off. But Jenette, while the most seasoned nurse on rotation, generally couldn’t care less about the workings of the office. There wouldn’t be paperwork for today, or for the next week for that matter, and she was sure that was music to her ears.</p><p>Clarke puts a hand on Bellamy’s back, pressing him forward. “Go,” she whispers, and she follows just behind, keeping a watchful eye on Octavia.</p><p>Out the clinic doors, Bellamy adjusts his grip on Octavia with a grunt. He’s sweating – who knows how far he carried her here? – and his eyes are ringed with lack of sleep. “I told you, I’m not taking her to a hospital.”</p><p>“We’re not going to a hospital,” Clarke insists, shedding her white coat with her name embroidered above the pocket as she dodges people on the street who may recognize her. If the wrong person notices, she’s dead. You can only keep up a façade for so long. “We’re going to my apartment.”</p><p>“How far is that?”</p><p>“Ten minutes the usual way,” Clarke answers, ducking into an alleyway littered with cardboard boxes and the faint scent of urine. “But it’ll be more like twenty this way.”</p><p>Bellamy scrapes his arm on the side of a building as he barely manages to fit the both of them through it, wincing, but pushes onward, desperate. “Why are we going this way then?”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have brought her to my clinic if you didn’t have a background. Let’s just say there’s a reason I work there.” Clarke says, peeking out around the back of a pharmacy. A redheaded girl steps out the back door, throwing out garbage. Octavia begins to stir in a coughing fit, attracting the attention of the girl.</p><p>“Is someone there?”</p><p>Clarke shoves the pair behind a pile of boxes, instructing them to duck down.</p><p>Hidden behind the boxes, Clarke can’t see, but she hears the door squeak open and another female voice. “Morgan? Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”</p><p>“There were people there,” the redheaded girl insists. “And then they just vanished.”</p><p>“It’s probably just some hopeful thinking we throw out expired drugs in the dumpster,” the second voice says. “Come on. Back to work. Mouths to feed and all that.”</p><p>The door shuts and Clarke peers around the box, checking for unwanted eyes. When she deems it all clear, she motions for Bellamy to get up and keep following her.</p><p>He gets up, but it’s not without immense effort. “Do you walk home like this every day?”</p><p>“Only on the days when I accept criminals into my home.” The alley ends in a mostly empty street, but Clarke doesn’t want to take any risks. “Walk normally.”</p><p>“Normally? How do you want me to walk normally and carry her at the same time?” Bellamy huffs. “And I’m not a criminal, for the record. Neither of us are. It’s fate of birth. Are you going to blame us for that?”</p><p>“This is my building,” Clarke says, holding the door open for them. She grabs the mail out of her box, which seems frivolous to do while she has a dying guest and one about to collapse from exhaustion, but she has to check now because the lobby is empty and who knows when she’ll get another chance? Mail isn’t something she has the luxury of ignoring. “And no, of course not, but the law is the law, and I’m trying not to win a state execution.” She leads them away from the elevator, which Bellamy had gravitated toward, and to a dimly lit stairwell. “Fifth floor.”</p><p>“You’re joking, right?” Bellamy says, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “There’s an elevator in the lobby.”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head. “Too unreliable. In case you haven’t noticed by the chipped paint and water stains on the ceiling, this isn’t exactly a rich part of the city. Up you go.”</p><p>Clarke does feel bad for him. By the time they make it to her apartment and get Octavia in Clarke’s bed, Bellamy practically collapses on the floor himself, barely propped up by the wall and the foot of the mattress. His head knocks tiredly against the radiator.</p><p>Clarke sets to work with her arsenal of a medicine cabinet and work bag. Octavia’s lungs still sound awful, and her temperature is 104. Clarke searches desperately through the bottles of pills in the cabinet, but unfortunately due to her training and knowledge of bacteria resistance, Clarke doesn’t have any leftover antibiotics, and Octavia won’t survive without them.</p><p>Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose, thinking.</p><p>“What is it?” Bellamy asks, struggling to rise to his feet.</p><p>Clarke returns to her bedroom and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. “No, just rest.” She doesn’t have any more pillows, so she props Octavia up with extra blankets instead, but it doesn’t do much to help. She sits at the edge of the bed and runs a thumb along her bottom lip. “I need to figure out a way to get antibiotics.” Octavia heaves forward again, coughing for every breath she has. Clarke jumps up, crossing to her side, and hits her firmly on the back, trying to help her loosen the mucus in her lungs. It won’t cure her, but it would make her feel better if she could cough some of it up. Suddenly, an idea dawns on her. “Steam.”</p><p>“Steam?”</p><p>Clarke rushes to the bathroom across the hall and turns on the hot water in the tub, letting the water run as hot as her skin can bear, then returns to her room for clean clothes. “It’ll help loosen up the gunk in her chest. She’ll feel better if she can get it out.” Clarke takes in the girl’s dirty clothes and greasy, matted hair. “Being clean makes you feel better anyway, doesn’t it, Octavia?”</p><p>Still coughing, Clarke doesn’t get an answer. Instead, she leads her slowly into the bathroom, helps her out of her dirty, ragged clothes, and lowers her into the water. Clarke opens the door a centimeter so Bellamy can hear her. “You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen.”</p><p>He thanks her but she doesn’t hear him get up, probably still too tired to even eat. She doesn’t know what kind of background they have or where they lived before this, but if she had to guess, they’re likely homeless, and given Octavia’s Unregistered status, they likely didn’t have access to food banks and shelters. At least here she knows they have food available and somewhere decent and safe to sleep. Clarke would take in every person who comes through her clinic if she had the space. It feels like her duty, to help them all. Money or power or background or status does not give a human life more value than another; each are precious and deserve a helping hand. Her mother would tell her she’s just like her father, and look where that got him.</p><p>She turns her attention back to Octavia, who is doing everything she can to keep her eyes open and above water. Clarke rolls up a hand towel to rest her head on and turns her attention to her filthy hair, using the handheld shower head to wash it. Octavia does try to make it easier for her, occasionally sitting up so she can rinse the nape of her neck, but it’s clear the mere effort of it all is wearing her out, though her cough slows a little in the steam. Clarke coats her long black hair in conditioner and sets to work untangling it with a wide tooth comb. Octavia seems to loll off to sleep now that she’s able to breathe a bit better, so Clarke just sits there with her on the cold tile floor keeping one hand on her wrist to check her pulse, just in case. When the water goes cold, Clarke shakes her awake gently.</p><p>“Did you have a nice nap?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Octavia says, bringing her hand up to her face. “I’m too tired to think.”</p><p>“Come on.” Clarke helps her out of the tub and helps her dry off and dress in an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants of Clarke’s. “Back to bed and I’ll get you some cough medicine.”</p><p>Her voice is hoarse. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Of course,” Clarke says, tucking her in bed, surrounding her with pillows to keep her upright. “It’s my job. I live for this.”</p><p>“Except it’s not your job to take patients into your house, so thank you. I don’t know where I’d be without her.” Bellamy says, now standing at the foot of the radiator, looking out the window like he’s looking at a different time.</p><p>Clarke measures out a dose of cough syrup in a medicine cup. “You’re welcome.” She nods to the bottom drawer of her dresser. “There’s clothes in there that will fit you,” she tells him. “Go take a minute to yourself and have a shower. I’ll look after her. Towels are under the sink.”</p><p>“Thanks.” He pulls out a brown t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, wavering. “Current or ex boyfriend’s? I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”</p><p>“Uh, current,” Clarke stammers, shaking her head. “He won’t mind, I promise. It’s a weird situation. Believe me though, he won’t mind if you take them.”</p><p>He raises his eyebrows. “Got it. Thanks.”</p><p>Clarke offers Octavia food but she won’t take it. After some persistence, she manages to get some water down her before she drifts off again, leaving Clarke alone in the fading sunlight to listen to the shower water running and deal with the pile of mail staring at her. The water and electric bill beg to be paid so she sets them off to the side to take care of later, and turns her attention to the thick, fancy envelope tied with a black ribbon that fills her with dread.</p><p>
  <em>You are invited!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A black tie gala will be held on September 27, 2149 at 8 PM at the Chancellor’s Statehouse in the ballroom in honor of:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Becca Franco</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Presenting answers to humanity’s long posed question: What is the cause of mankind’s problems?</em>
</p><p>Paper of this quality only comes from the Council or the Chancellor himself. <em>Or his family</em>, Clarke is reminded, and she really, really doesn’t want to read her next letter, her name and address written in beautiful script on the front, but she opens it anyway.</p><p>               <em>My beloved Clarke,</em></p><p>
  <em>               I hope you receive this letter at the same time or after you receive the invitation to Becca’s gala, which I’m told will be an experience unlike any other. My father is being very hush hush about the details, but I’m told there will be a grand unveiling of something, and given its Becca, I’m hopeful it’s some kind of technology that will help us save humanity. That’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? To save humanity? I do it through my work as the Chancellor’s son, learning every day what it means to lead. But you, my dear, you do it every day in your work, saving humanity one life at a time. It’s one of my favorite things about you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>               I feel it goes without saying that you should be my date at the gala, but I will ask you now anyway. Will you be my date? I will have the seamstress design something especially for you based on the measurements you gave her for the Unity Day party and have it sent to your house. You’ll be the most radiant girl at the gala. You’re radiant regardless.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>               I’ll see you soon, my dear. Looking forward to it, as always. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>                                                                                                                                       With love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>                                                                                                                                                     Wells Jaha</em>
</p><p>Clarke bites her lip. One week. She has one week to get Octavia stable enough to be left alone, or at the very least home alone with Bellamy, because going to the gala isn’t optional. Wells, precious, naïve little Wells, phrases the question so beautifully and with such respect she’s inclined to believe she would have the option to kindly decline if she so chose, but he will never fully understand the position she is in. Maybe one day he will, if he becomes Chancellor, but for now he has no idea the kind of pressure she’s under.</p><p>“Something wrong?” Bellamy asks, drying his hair with the towel, making it stick up in all kinds of directions. His arm is bleeding from scraping it on the wall in the alley, the water washing away the barely formed scab. Watery blood trickles down his forearm and off his elbow but he doesn’t seem to notice – checking on Octavia is his only priority. When he’s satisfied his sister is okay, he turns his attention to Clarke, who tries to wipe away the dread and worry from her face before he notices.</p><p>Clarke shakes her head. These two are in enough trouble for merely existing. They don’t need to get wrapped up in her drama. “Just trying to think of where I can find some antibiotics. I know she seems alright now but the steam and cough suppressant are just a temporary fix.”</p><p>He raises his eyebrows. “That letter tell you that?”</p><p>She quickly folds it and puts it on the window’s ledge. “Just personal stuff.”</p><p>He nods. “I don’t mean to trouble you after all you’ve done for us, but do you have something to put on this?” He holds up his elbow. “I think I’m bleeding on your floor.”</p><p>“Come on,” she says, leading him back to the bathroom. “First aid’s in here.”</p><p>He leans against the sink, a hand cupped over his elbow. She digs in the cabinet under the sink for a familiar blue box, stocked with extra goodies she’s taken home from the clinic. She takes out a bottle of alcohol and gauze to clean the wound.</p><p>“Ow,” he hisses, reflexively drawing his arm back.</p><p>“Sorry. I’ve just done this so many times it sometimes I forget it hurts.”</p><p>Clarke uses a pair of tweezers to remove a piece of chipped paint from the wound. Bellamy does his best not to react again, but he’s not that good of an actor. “Doctor of the criminals, huh? I bet you don’t see the sniffles often.”</p><p>“Your sister has more than the sniffles,” she says, throwing the dirty gauze in the trash and searching for the antibiotic ointment in the first aid box. “But no, I don’t see actual illnesses often. I think most of my patients see me as the way to not die when they get shot or stabbed.” She spreads the ointment over the scrape and washes the excess off her hands before wrapping it in clean gauze. “I also don’t tell on them and my services are free. Turns out keeping undesirables out of emergency rooms is worthy of government pay.”</p><p>He tilts his arm, checking out her gauze-wrapping handiwork. “What made you choose to work with these,” he holds her gaze, knowing that the status is something he’s chosen to protect his sister, “undesirables?”</p><p>“Not you,” she shakes her head, putting her supplies back in the box and throwing away packaging. “I don’t see any of my patients as undesirables. And for the record,” she shrugs, “it’s not a path I chose.”</p><p>“You didn’t choose?”</p><p>Clarke speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I have a temporary deal with the Chancellor. If I want to work, I have to work in the shadows.” She laughs slightly. “How very dramatic.”</p><p>He grins. “So you’ve met the son on a bitch then? Tell me, is he as cold as he appears on TV?”</p><p>“I don’t know that I’m allowed to say.” Clarke winces internally, the words still uncomfortable to think, much less say. “I’m dating his son.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re kidding, right?”</p><p>Clarke looks him in the eye and doesn’t say anything.</p><p>He blanches. “You are?”</p><p>Clarke nods.</p><p>Bellamy pushes past her, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom across the hall where Octavia sleeps peacefully, perhaps for the first time in weeks. He kneels down beside her and shakes her shoulder. “O. O, we can’t stay here. We have to go.”</p><p>“You don’t have to go,” Clarke promises. “That agreement,” she stammers. “I already have a record. I’m not going to turn you in.”</p><p>He stands up and walks over to Clarke, practically standing in her face. “Oh yeah? And what’s that charge, huh? Shoplifting? Tax evasion? My sister,” he points to Octavia, “is Unregistered.”</p><p>He may be bigger than Clarke, towering over her, but she has inside connections, whether or not she would actually use them, and she knows he won’t hurt her. “Treason.”</p><p>“Treason.” Bellamy echoes, shaking his head, walking over to the window. “Yeah. Like they’d let you live for treason.”</p><p>Clarke’s eyes follow him. “Well, I have court on the 29<sup>th</sup>, so we’ll see.”</p><p>“What’d you do?”</p><p>“I didn’t perform selective reduction on a set of twins. I let a sibling live,” she says for emphasis. His eyes soften, but they don’t look at her. “The mother couldn’t bear the thought of it and I couldn’t perform a procedure on her without her consent. We made a plan for her to deliver at home and the one question I never thought to ask,” she shakes her head, chastising her past self for her ignorance. “I never thought to ask what her husband thought. I thought he knew it was twins. I thought he was on board with this. The babies were born while he was at work and I was still there by the time he got home and,” Clarke sighs, “and he was an officer in the Guard. I knew it was over as soon as I saw that uniform.”</p><p>He sits down with his back against the radiator, looking over at Octavia. “How is it treason to have more than one child?”</p><p>Clarke sits down beside him. “It is when the dome is at max capacity with no hope of Earth recovering anytime soon. The birth and death rates need to be balanced.”</p><p>He picks at a piece of lint on his sock. “Mom couldn’t do it either.”</p><p>“I imagine it’s a difficult reality to face.”</p><p>Finally, he looks at her. “What happened to them?”</p><p>“The father is still in the Guard I think. The mother was given the choice of her life or one of the twins. She chose her life, or I’m told it was her choice. She kept the boy because he was the firstborn and technically the one she should’ve had in the first place. I’m not sure what happened to the little girl.”</p><p>“Probably boxed up and left outside. That or her ashes are salting the ground.” He stares ahead at an empty spot of floor. “I hate them all.”</p><p>Clarke has to agree it’s an awful and ugly truth of life. The city is the last inhabited place on Earth, constructed as a nuclear fallout shelter years ago. Those who were inside, building and furnishing it at the time of the bombs were the only survivors. Black marble walls rise up along its borders, a clear dome covering the sky. It’s beautiful, practical, and lifesaving, though sometimes Clarke feels like that boardgame with the dice trapped inside the plastic bubble. It’s a feat of engineering, but it was never meant to house this many people for the last ninety-four years. The dome can only support so many and there is simply no wiggle room for extras. “They’re just trying to stay alive. Just like the rest of us.”</p><p>Bellamy stands up, stopping the conversation in its tracks. “I’m going to bed.”</p><p>              </p><p>Somehow Bellamy managed to find the space in Clarke’s single bed to lie beside Octavia, and whether that was because he wanted to keep a watchful eye on her or because Clarke had offended him by not taking his side that the Chancellor and Council were monsters, she wasn’t sure. Clarke had slept on her faux fur rug at the foot of her bed in case Octavia should need anything in the night. She didn’t wake up on her own, which worried Clarke, so she had set alarms at intervals all through the night to check on her and give her more medicine. Clarke’s mattress wasn’t much, but after a night of fitful sleep on the rug, Clarke sorely missed it.</p><p>Clarke dunks a teabag in a mug of hot water, trying to wake herself up. The temperature had dropped in the night, leaving her shivering. She would’ve turned the heat up for Octavia’s sake, but if she did she worried she wouldn’t be able to afford rent, and had ended up just getting up with the sun and giving Octavia her blanket.</p><p>Clarke stirs her yogurt absentmindedly, her thoughts still stuck on where she can find antibiotics. The clinic doesn’t carry anything strong enough or else she would get them there. Today is Saturday, so that’s closed anyway. There’s the “abandoned” warehouse by the bridge, the center for black market goods. It will be open, and Clarke can bet on medicine being sold there, but whether it’s anything that will be of any actual benefit to Octavia isn’t a guarantee. And that’s not taking into account the danger she would put herself in by going. The black market stalls held connections, and though Clarke was well known and respected by the lower class, the upper class knows her too, and black market trading is illegal. With a treason charge already against her, the wrong person seeing her could mean her death. Of course, there was also her mother, chief of surgery in her district’s top hospital, and surgeons run into infection all the time. A course of antibiotics strong enough to cure Octavia would be there and her mother could access them easily. The only problem was she would have to ask her mother.</p><p>No question. Black market it is.</p><p>Clarke manages to eat enough yogurt to quell her stomach’s grumbling although she doesn’t like it without fruit and granola, but she has neither and no money to get any either. She sips her tea in an effort to warm herself, the tip of her nose gone cold. With no time to waste, Clarke puts her dishes in the sink and leaves a note on the nightstand with the time of her next dose of medicine, location of the pantry, and grants them access to the bookshelf in the living room if they get bored. She decides against telling them where she’s actually going, only that she’ll be back soon and not to leave the apartment.</p><p>Leaves fall and crunch underfoot as Clarke makes her way down a busy street with the weekend shift going to work. Wrapped up in a thick coat with a hat and gloves, Clarke does her best to mask her true identity. Whether people saw her as the local low income doctor or the Chancellor’s son’s girlfriend would depend on their following of the Arkadian news, and well, there’s not much else to do in this district.</p><p>The warehouse once stored construction equipment, though Clarke doesn’t know where the equipment went or why they decided to stop using the building. She turns the knob of the small side door and takes in the lingering smell of oil and grease. Morning sun filters in through high, dirty windows, bathing the space in pale light, giving the definitely illegal building an air of fresh, renewed energy.</p><p>She keeps her head down as she peruses the stalls, looking for anyone who might be selling medicine. A young man does his best to swindle her into purchasing a data pad, though its screen is so cracked it barely recognizes his touch. A middle aged couple show off an array of buttons, thread, and fabric, shouting so loudly it echoes, trying to draw attention to their stand. A young girl, no more than fifteen, has apples and pears arranged on a circular stand she proudly tells Clarke she made herself. Her prices are expensive but she guarantees this fruit is the best you’ll ever taste. If Clarke didn’t have a sick girl to try to convince to eat at home, she wouldn’t waste her money. She ends up buying one of each and hopes the paper bag in her hand will give her credibility as a buyer.</p><p>Near the end of the building, Clarke notices a sway of red hair. It’s the girl from the pharmacy. She doesn’t think she saw them in the alley, not their faces anyway, and she’s pretty sure she’s never been in that pharmacy before, which makes this stall fair game. Still, Clarke approaches cautiously.</p><p>“And like I was saying,” says a girl with dark hair and honey colored skin, crouched down behind the table, “that’s not my responsibility. And you know what she says to me? Three years old and she says, ‘Well it’s not mine!’ How am I supposed to argue with that? She’s three years old and talking to me like a grown woman.”</p><p>The girl with red hair looks down at her feet and coos. “You’ll never talk to me like that, will you?”</p><p>“Oh, you just wait. They say two is the hardest, but nothing has tested my patience like three has,” the dark haired girl says. She frowns. “He’s not wanting to settle.”</p><p>The other girl sighs, leaning her weight on the table. “He’s probably hungry again. I don’t have any solid food in the house he can manage until payday and he’s absolutely draining me.”</p><p>“Here.” The girl puts a baby, maybe six months old, in the redhead’s arms. “Go rest in the back for a little while. Maybe you can both take a nap. I’ll run the stall.”</p><p>Clarke hesitates for a moment, knowing how much she just paid, before handing over the apple to the girl with red hair. “Here. Take it. It’ll fill his belly anyway.”</p><p>She looks stunned. “Are you sure? Do I know you?”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Clarke answers, secretly sighing in relief that she doesn’t recognize her. “But yes, I’m sure. I know it’s only one apple, but it’s that much of a break anyway.”</p><p>The sincerity in her eyes over the gratefulness of an apple is heartbreaking. “Thank you. Althea, get this girl whatever she needs.”</p><p>The dark haired girl regards Clarke. “What can I get you?”</p><p>“You’re from the pharmacy, right?”</p><p>She shifts her weight. “Are you from the FDA?”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head. “No. I’m looking for antibiotics for a friend.”</p><p>She nods, looking through a box. “I have a full course of penicillin. Doctor’s don’t prescribe that much anymore. I have one of amoxicillin, four of rifaximin, and two of azithromycin. What are they sick with?”</p><p>“Do you have any levofloxacin or clarithromycin?”</p><p>She gives Clarke a funny look. “I don’t have many customers who come in here that know what those are, much less how to pronounce them. Are you a nurse or something?”</p><p>“Doctor,” Clarke concedes.</p><p>“If you’re a doctor, why don’t you just prescribe it to them?”</p><p>Clarke leans in, trying to be upbeat and funny about the question, but of course she’s already thought of that. She doesn’t because Octavia is Unregistered, and how is she supposed to fill a prescription with no information? “If I could do that, would I be in a dusty warehouse looking for expired drugs?”</p><p>“Fair enough,” she says, looking through other boxes. “These expiry dates are a total sham, by the way. They’re still just as effective for two years after.”</p><p>“Are they really?” Clarke asks, attempting to make small talk.</p><p>“Oh yeah.” She moves a cardboard box to the side. “They make all these speeches about conserving resources but there still using old guidelines to determine the expiration date. Our equipment and the manufacturing processes are a lot better now. It just makes for so much waste. The both of us have kids at home and well, if you live the Factory district you can always use more money.”</p><p>Clarke scoffs, not at the girl but at the situation, knowing all too well the debate of buying food or paying the electric bill. “Isn’t that the truth.”</p><p>She stands up. “Here you go. Clarithromycin. Twice a day for – well, I’m sure you know.”</p><p>“Seven days,” Clarke smiles. “Yes, I know.”</p><p>“Right. That’ll be one hundred and fifty points.”</p><p>Clarke thinks her jaw actually drops. “One hundred fifty?”</p><p>The girl shrugs. “It’s not a common drug. You have the budget to pay for it,”</p><p>“Not really,” Clarke says. There goes the electric bill. If this wasn’t the best chance of curing Octavia, she wouldn’t buy expired drugs at this high of a price. She’s pretty sure it’s not even that expensive when it’s new in the pharmacy. “Thumb print or corneal scan?”</p><p>The girl produces a data pad from under the counter. “Thumb print, please.”</p><p>Clarke tries her best not to grumble through the transaction and is all too eager to get out of there. You must really be desperate to come here from what she’s seen. Prices are exorbitant and the goods aren’t all that good. She pockets the medication her coat and heads back home, her mind heavy with how she’ll pay her bills this month.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nearing lunch by the time she makes it back to the apartment, and she finds Bellamy standing by the dining room table, next to the big window that overlooks the city. On clear evenings, the sun sets beautifully over the tall, massive buildings, though Clarke never really gets to see where it goes, always disappearing behind the glossy black wall that houses them in before reaching the horizon. He turns to her when he hears the door open. “Did you find any medicine?”</p><p>“I did.” Clarke pulls the bottle out of her pocket. “And a pear. Do you know if Octavia likes them?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never eaten one and neither has she.”</p><p>“Well, you’re going to have to try to bribe her with it.” Clarke runs a glass of water and shakes a pill out of the bottle. “She needs to eat to keep her strength up.”</p><p>He takes the pear from her, weighing it in his hand. “I’ll try.”</p><p>Clarke hands him a knife from the drawer. “You too.”</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>“Taste it,” she leans against the counter. “They’re a favorite of mine.”</p><p>He shakes his head. “It’s not for me.”</p><p>“All food in this house is for you,” she insists. She’ll just eat smaller portions this month. It’ll help her fit in her dress for the gala anyway. The measurements from her Unity Day dress were so tight she couldn’t breathe, and all the better if she doesn’t have to repeat that experience with the eyes of so many high officials on her. She takes the pear from him and trims off a slice. “Eat it. That way you can tell Octavia how good it is.”</p><p>His eyes tell her he still doesn’t fully trust her, and Clarke can’t help but wonder what it was like to grow up dividing ration points with his sister. She has clearly always come first in his life, she can tell by how fiercely protective they are of each other, and surely that has led to some twisted views on food. He hands the sliver back. “No. I won’t take from her.”</p><p>Clarke pulls the jar of peanut butter down from the shelf and grabs a spoon, heading for her bedroom. “Why don’t we ask Octavia if you should eat it?”</p><p>She’s awake for once, staring at the dust suspended in sunbeams from the window, seemingly at peace, though her wheezing makes it clear she’s no better. Her voice is painfully hoarse. “Hey.”</p><p>Clarke sits down beside the bed, which is already on the floor, and sorts out the food and medicine. “Hey yourself. It’s nice to see you awake on your own.”</p><p>“Did you find any medicine?”</p><p>“I did,” she tells her, handing her a pill and glass of water. “Take this.”</p><p>Octavia does without question, not asking what kind of medicine it is. Clarke frowns. She could’ve given her anything. She wonders if she earned her trust so quickly because the dying tend to imprint on their saviors or because of her limited experience with strangers. In a world like this, both are dangerous.</p><p>Clarke tries to shrug the thought off, hoping it’s the former and that once she feels better she’ll come back to her senses. Not that Clarke would ever harm her, no, she would never intentionally harm one of her patients, but one should be a little wary of everything and everyone. It’s impossible to know who to trust until it’s too late. She spreads some peanut butter on a slice of pear. “Bellamy tells me pears are new to you.”</p><p>“Pairs? Pairs of what?”</p><p>“No,” Clarke smiles. “Not pairs like socks. This is a fruit. Singular.”</p><p>Octavia eyes the spoon. “I do love peanut butter.” She takes the fruit slice from Clarke, smelling it – and thankfully showing some regard for what she’s about to ingest – before biting down into the sweet thing. “It’s so good.”</p><p>Clarke cuts another slice. “I have more.”</p><p>After eating the second slice, Octavia says, “Bell, you have to try this. I’ve never had anything like this before.”</p><p>Clarke turns to him, standing behind her, and raises her eyebrows in an <em>I told you so</em> manner. She offers him a slice too, and this time he takes it, sighing with each bite.</p><p>Clarke cuts another slice for Octavia. “Did you eat breakfast?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “This is the first thing I’ve had since,” she stops to think, “Wednesday? Thursday? It was the day before you took us in.”</p><p>Two days. Growing up with her mother on the Council, Clarke hadn’t known hunger. Not like that. Her mother sometimes forgot to transfer points to her account and left her to wait all day in the lobby while the Council was in session. That had happened several times, and by the time her mother finished and got Clarke something to eat, Clarke would be beyond grumpy. But grumpy wasn’t hungry. Not like that. She turns to Bellamy. “What about you?”</p><p>He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Same time.”</p><p>Clarke tilts her head, pressing for the truth. “Really?”</p><p>He mirrors her, mocking. “I did.”</p><p>“He did,” Octavia says. “But he made me eat first.”</p><p>Clarke stands, handing the pear and knife to Bellamy. “See to your sister. I’m making lunch, a real lunch, and you’re going to eat as much as you can hold. Both of you.”</p><p>In the kitchen, Clarke looks at the semi empty shelves. Half a box of rotini, half a box of bowties, maybe a serving of penne. Pasta is cheap, filling, and quick to make. Perfect for poor, busy people like herself. She fills a pot with water, salts it, and turns on the stove.</p><p>She checks the bottom cabinets under the microwave for some kind of sauce, anything to go with the pasta. The container of flour and sugar on the floor beside her, her body half inside the cabinet, she hears footsteps approach.</p><p>“I can help.”</p><p>Banging her head on the top of the cabinet, Clarke winces as she turns to find a sheepish Bellamy standing beside her. “Sure. Keep an eye on the stove for me, will you? I’m looking for pasta sauce.” She turns back to the cabinet, and finding it void of any kind of pasta sauce, she brings out the only thing remotely close. “We only have tomato soup though.”</p><p>Bellamy stands over the stove, stirring the various pasta shapes. “Do you have any spices?”</p><p>Clarke points to the cabinet above his head. “Up there.”</p><p>He opens the door and starts pulling out a variety of spices, more than Clarke has probably ever used at once in her life. “Mom never bought pasta sauce. Tomato soup and spices work just fine.”</p><p>Clarke looks down at the can in her hands. “Won’t it be too liquidy?”</p><p>He grabs a bowl from the dish drainer. “You just don’t add as much water.”</p><p>Clarke pulls the top on the can and dumps its contents in the bowl. Bellamy gets to work measuring the spices. She has to admit, it is starting to smell like pasta sauce. She leans against the counter, watching him work. If he’s this good at making something from nothing, they must’ve been poor growing up too. “What’s your mom do for work?”</p><p>He stills. “She was a seamstress. Had some side jobs too.”</p><p>“What does she do now?”</p><p>He stirs the spices in without looking at her. “Nothing. She’s dead. Octavia’s existence caught up to her.”</p><p>Good one, Clarke. “Hey, I’m sorry. I should’ve guessed.”</p><p>He turns the stove off. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” He forces a smile. “What about yours?”</p><p>“She’s a Councilor. Represents Alpha.”</p><p>He nods his head a little, laughing under his breath. “Of course she does.”</p><p>Clarke frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Come on. Alpha? A Councilor? No wonder you had that rich kid look when I made this.”</p><p>“She wasn’t always a Councilor,” Clarke says in her defense. “She used to just be a doctor.”</p><p>“Oh, a doctor?” he says sarcastically. “Even better. What’s your dad do?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Clarke bites. “Also dead.”</p><p>Bellamy plates the pasta. “What’d he do before that?”</p><p>She hesitates, knowing how this is going to play out. “Environmental engineer.”</p><p>“Environmental engineer. Wow,” he feigns surprise. “How very lucky you were.”</p><p>She takes the plate from him. “What happened to yours?”</p><p>He shrugs, sitting down at the dining table. “Wouldn’t know. Never met him. Octavia’s either.”</p><p>“You have different dads?”</p><p>He holds his fork in the air mid bite. “What a whore my mother was for keeping us alive, right?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean that.”</p><p>“Of course you didn’t.” He stabs a piece of penne as Clarke sits down in front of him. “It’s fate of birth, remember? Not your fault you had the perfect life.”</p><p>Clarke stares at her plate. “No one has a perfect life.”</p><p>“No,” he says. “But some have it infinitely easier than others.”</p><p>“Did you always live in Factory?” Clarke asks, trying desperately to chance the subject.</p><p>“Yep. Always been poor.”</p><p>Clarke sighs. “Bellamy.”</p><p>“Sorry.” He runs a hand down the side of his face. “It’s just hard not to be angry at the situation. You try being six years old and your mom hands you a newborn baby to take care of because she has to work. I’ve never lived for myself.”</p><p>At six, Clarke was making mud pies in front of the courthouse with Wells and playing on the swings at school. She can’t imagine taking care of a newborn baby now, at twenty-one. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry that happened to you.”</p><p>He presses his lips together, not looking at her. His voice is soft, careful to not let it travel through the walls. “Sometimes I think it would be easier without her, you know? I’ve basically been a parent since I was six. And sometimes I think and I just – I just can’t do that. I promised Mom. It wouldn’t be right.”</p><p>“She’ll be alright, Bellamy. I promise. Try to relax while you’re here, okay? We’ll figure everything else out later.”</p><p>“When does later start? On Monday, after they execute you for treason?” He raises his eyebrows at Clarke’s expression. “What? You don’t really expect them to let you live after that, do you?”</p><p>Clarke smears a bowtie through the homemade pasta sauce. “I have contingencies.”</p><p>He gestures to himself. “Am I wearing your contingency? Are you relying on Wells Jaha to save you?”</p><p>Clarke bites the inside of her lip. That’s exactly what she’s doing. It’s the entire reason she kissed him suddenly on that chilly spring night. There was no great love in her life and quite frankly she didn’t expect there to ever be one, as busy as she was at the clinic in Alpha, there simply wouldn’t be time for that. She had known Wells since childhood and their dads had been great friends. Wells was good, and nice, and if this thing ran its course and she didn’t need her contingency, that would be fine. She could imagine a life with Wells, a good friend by her side, even if she didn’t love him the way he clearly loved her. Life would turn out alright. Now, she doubted what she was doing, living in a decaying apartment in a shady part of the city, taking in the very kind of people who shouldn’t even exist. How is she supposed to defend her actions in court as the mother’s fault for not giving consent when she has an Unregistered sleeping in her bed?</p><p>“It’s a bad plan,” he points out.</p><p>Clarke takes a deep breath. “Well it’s my only plan, so…”</p><p>He mulls the thought over. “How did you get out of jail in the first place?”</p><p>“My mother,” she says. “She bailed me out so I could make use of my remaining time before the trial. ‘You’re too smart and too skilled at what you do to waste six weeks doing nothing in jail.’ She got me a cheap apartment, a government check for my work, and forty-two days of freedom. How nice of her.”</p><p>He licks a bit of sauce off his lip. “I sense a bit of resentment there.”</p><p>Clarke puts her fork down. “There was no ‘I love you, Clarke’. No ‘I know how hard this job is, I’ll help you in your trial’. None of that. She got me out because it takes several years to become a doctor and because that training will be wasted when I’m dead. Who says that to their daughter?”</p><p>“Do you think she’ll defend you in the trial?”</p><p>She huffs. “I don’t even know anymore. She’s not like that. She –” Clarke stumbles over the words. “She should love her family more than that.”</p><p>“Despite everything, Mom did make sure she loved us,” he half smiles. “I hope your mom comes around. You seem like a perfectly wonderful person to me for taking us in.”</p><p>Clarke nods absentmindedly, too lost in the idea of her mother not being on her side to really pay attention. “I hope so.”</p><p>Bellamy stands. “I’ll take the dishes.”</p><p>“No.” Clarke stands. “I will. You cooked. There’s a bookshelf over there. Do you like books? I don’t have many and I don’t have a television, because quite frankly who would spend money on something you won’t use for more than six weeks? You’re welcome to anything you like. Take something to Octavia too.”</p><p>He browses the bookshelf by the door, a half broken secondhand thing with a middle shelf missing. Clarke had bought it in a moving sale from a neighbor, and the books had been thrown in. In five weeks Clarke hadn’t read a single one and probably never will. Bellamy’s eyes light up suddenly, and he pulls a book off the second shelf. “<em>The</em> <em>Odyssey</em>. You like mythology?”</p><p>She shrugs. “I don’t know honestly. The books were free. I haven’t even touched them since I got them.”</p><p>“I love <em>The Oddessy</em>. So does O. Mom used to read us stories all the time.”</p><p>“Take it,” she says. “Take it even when you leave here. I won’t need it.”</p><p>“You might,” he says hopefully.</p><p>She forces a smile. “Maybe.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three days pass. It’s Wednesday. Clarke hasn’t left the apartment since getting the antibiotics except to go to the lobby to pick up her mail. Food is a bit sparse with three people eating, but she can shop later when her check deposits on Friday. She’ll just have to be very saving with her points. Bellamy has been reading to them. Odysseus is on the island with the Cyclops. Clarke has to admit, she’s enjoying it, and whether that’s because it’s a good story or because she likes the way Bellamy reads it, with inflection and emotion, she’s not sure. Octavia’s recovery feels slow, but she seems to be in good spirits and eats a bit better, it’s just the nasty, lingering cough that worries her.</p>
<p>Bellamy sits at the foot of Clarke’s bed, the book tilted to read in the evening light. Octavia lays snuggled down in the covers, her hair spread out in a just-brushed fan on the pillow, her eyes open, awake, but just barely. She sleeps often still, and now that she’s on antibiotics, Clarke just lets her. Rest is good for a healing body.</p>
<p>Clarke leans against the windowsill, which is really just a painted concrete ledge about three inches deep, flipping through the stack of envelopes in her hand, fresh from the mailbox. One from Wells, one from the Arkadian Supreme Court, and one from the electric company. Clarke doesn’t know where to start – they’re all bad.</p>
<p>The electric company sent a warning. The bill is two hundred and twenty-two points, which Clarke doesn’t even pretend to think she’ll be able to pay. Her check will be short this time because she only worked one of the two weeks, and that needs to go to food. They’ll just have to dress warmer and try to find some candles.</p>
<p>Clarke is pretty sure she knows what the letter from the court says, and she’s right. It’s just a reminder of her summons to trial on Monday, and a reminder of what will happen if she doesn’t show. <em>Every crime committed by individuals over 18 years of age is punishable by death</em>. Her stomach turns, lingering on that last word. Does it matter if she dies for treason or for failure to appear?</p>
<p>Last is Wells’ letter. Clarke still hasn’t responded to his previous letter asking her to the gala and she doesn’t have a phone to call him since Bellamy smashed it in the lobby of the clinic. Not like she used it much anyway since every phone call charged her. Wells called it romantic when she told him they’d have to write when she got her new apartment because she didn’t have the money, and now she’s worried he’s angry with her for not responding, but quite frankly, between taking care of Octavia, her trial on Monday, and general dread about dressing up for an unnecessary party while people are dying of poverty in the streets and facing her mother in the same night, she hasn’t really felt up to talking to him. Now she’s beginning to fear her error, and that making him doubt her devotion may just cost her her life.</p>
<p>She slides a thumb under the lip of the envelope while Bellamy prattles on about sheep in the background and Octavia snores.</p>
<p>               <em>My dearest Clarke,</em></p>
<p>
  <em>               I hope my last letter was not lost. The postal service could really use some updates and more funding, if I’m honest. I’ll talk to Dad about it. Anyway, I asked you to Becca’s gala on Saturday as my date and I haven’t heard from you yet. Maybe it was your response lost. Regardless, I ask again, will you accompany me as the most beautiful woman alive on Saturday? You are wonderful company and I do hope you’ll say yes. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        All my love,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                                           Wells Jaha</em>
</p>
<p>Every muscle in her relaxes. Clarke breathes out slowly through her nose. <em>He’s not mad</em>. <em>He’s not mad</em>. <em>He’s not mad</em>. Maybe if she says it enough it’ll stick, but that was close.</p>
<p>“‘When we came home safe to the island, where the other ships were waiting for us, hoping against hope –’” Bellamy stops reading. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>Clarke shoves the letter in the envelope and quickly puts it away on the windowsill. “What?”</p>
<p>He lowers the book, half closing it. “You look pale.”</p>
<p>“No,” she says, fiddling with the envelopes again, restacking them hastily only to have them slip again, before sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him. “No, I’m good. Go on. Tell me what happened when they returned to the island.”</p>
<p>He puts the book behind him. “No. Look, if us being here is adding stress to you we’ll go. Octavia’s getting better already. I’m sure if she keeps taking the antibiotics she’ll be fine. We can go.”</p>
<p>“No,” Clarke shakes her head. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone right now.”</p>
<p>Bellamy looks at the windowsill. “Something in that letter is bothering you.”</p>
<p>She picks at her fingernails. “Wells wants me to go to this stupid party with him and I don’t have a choice. He’s so sweet and he says it like I do but I don’t. And then there’s my mom. With her being a Councilor, she’ll definitely be there and I’ll have to talk to her. They always seat us next to each other and I can only imagine how much of a nightmare that will be.”</p>
<p>“Could you talk to Wells about it? At least have you seated separately?”</p>
<p>“No. I don’t know how many people know I’m on trial, but she doesn’t need to deal with more drama. My dad was executed for treason, so when the media catches wind that now her daughter is about to go through the same thing, it’ll be a frenzy. She won’t be able to keep her seat on the Council. They’ll say she’s involved in some deep seated conspiracy to overthrow the government or something.”</p>
<p>“Is she?”</p>
<p>“Of course not. My mother is one of the most upright people I know. What we did is unrelated. It’s just,” she looks up at him, who is so kindly pretending to be interested in her family drama, “both of my parents put forth their all for the good of the community, they just did it in different ways. One is acceptable, one was not. I don’t see what the difference is. They both do the same thing essentially.”</p>
<p>He’s quiet, looking uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t need to involve you too.”</p>
<p>He gives her a half smile. “We’re already fugitives. What does it matter if you do?”</p>
<p>She smiles.</p>
<p>“I’m not pretending to know anything about politics or treason or fancy parties, but I do know from experience,” he looks over at Octavia, sleeping soundly and drooling on Clarke’s pillowcase, “that you did the right thing. So even if this party is terrible and your mother hates you and court goes bad, you changed that mother’s life forever, even if it was just for a moment. Mine too. So there’s at least two people eternally grateful for you breaking the law, and I suspect a third if she were awake to say so.”</p>
<p>Clarke raises her eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”</p>
<p>He half rolls, half jumps out of bed. “The world is forever changed by you, Dr. Griffin, even if you die on Monday.” He disappears down the hall like he didn’t just renew Clarke’s will to live, muttering something about needing a snack.</p>
<p>She scoots over to his seat on the bed and leans against the wall, meditating on what he just said. Family sounds a lot more fun when half isn’t dead and the other half doesn’t hate you.</p>
<p>Partially scooted under the bed is a half empty notebook and pencil with the eraser missing. Clarke clings to the mattress, flipping upside down to grab them, and begins to gather her thoughts to write Wells back. <em>Of course I accept. How exciting! I can’t wait to see you again! </em>Her hand hovering over the only two words she’s managed to actually write – <em>Dear Wells, </em>– she can’t help but wonder what he actually sees in her.</p>
<p>Beside her, Octavia begins to make a weird noise, almost like gurgling in her sleep. Clarke sits up immediately, frowning. She shakes Octavia’s leg. “Octavia? Octavia. Wake up.”</p>
<p>Her eyes shoot open, but they look half glazed over. She squints and frowns before lurching into a huge coughing fit, gasping for every breath. When she brings her hand away from her mouth, it’s bloody. Her eyes go wide and lock with Clarke’s, unable to get any words out.</p>
<p>“Bellamy! Get in here!” Clarke shouts and she hears a plate shatter. She lifts Octavia by the armpits and props her up completely against the wall, reaching behind her for a box of tissues for her.</p>
<p>Bellamy comes crashing into the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Sit with her,” Clarke orders, already rushing around her room for her coat and shoes. “Don’t move from her side.”</p>
<p>He catches sight of her hands. “Clarke, that’s –”</p>
<p>She pulls on her coat. “I know. I’m going to that pharmacy we passed on the way here. These antibiotics aren’t working. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t move.”</p>
<p>There’s a fear in his eyes Clarke can’t even describe.</p>
<p>“I’m coming back,” she promises. She opens the jewelry box on her dresser, contemplating over its contents. Her father’s silver watch sits beside gold and diamond bracelets from Wells, among other gifts from him and a few from her time as the “rich kid” as Bellamy called it. She pockets the diamond bracelet and rushes out the door, taking the stairs two at a time, praying she doesn’t fall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s twilight by the time she makes it to the pharmacy, daylight no more than a memory now. All the better if you ask Clarke. No one needs to see the amount of begging and bribing she’s prepared to do.</p>
<p>The pharmacy is nicer than Clarke expected, with four rows of items on sale, ranging from candles to cough drops to bandages to greeting cards. The dark haired woman from the black market stand is squatted down in the floor beside a little girl, maybe two or three years old with the world’s cutest halo of black curls, helping her work the candy machine. In the back of the store is the actual pharmacy with drop off and pick up signs hanging up on either side, but only one has someone working it. Clarke struts down an aisle, trying to be quick, but sharply turns on her heels and pretends to look at heating pads when she sees someone standing at the pick up counter, arguing with the redheaded girl she gave the apple to.</p>
<p>Unable to mind her own business as usual, Clarke peeks around the end of the aisle to listen.</p>
<p>The pharmacist tries to get the girl to stop talking, even just for a second. “Raven. Raven. Raven.”</p>
<p>A girl about Clarke’s age leans against the counter, her left leg in a brace – although not one Clarke has ever seen before – begging. “I have an appointment on Friday, I promise, I just need like six pills to get me through.”</p>
<p>The pharmacist shakes her head. “I can’t do that, Raven. You know that. Bring me that prescription first thing on Friday and I’ll have it ready for you.” She types on the computer. “I gave you enough for the month. Why are you out already?”</p>
<p>The girl frowns, huffing. “Do you know what it’s like to live in pain every day? I was <em>shot</em>, remember? They dug a bullet out of my spine. That doesn’t heal! I have to have them to work. Sometimes I’m on my feet for long hours or bent in weird positions working on things and I just need a little extra to get me through.”</p>
<p>“I’m very sorry to hear that, I am, but I can’t give you any extra.”</p>
<p>“What if,” she ponders, looking for anything to barter with, “what if I got you a job? A better job than this. Better pay, better hours – well, maybe better hours. Definitely better pay. I could get you in with <em>Becca</em>.”</p>
<p>The redhead leans in. “I’m already in with Becca.”</p>
<p>“Okay, um, well, well, what do you have besides Oxy that you could give me?”</p>
<p>She points with her pen. “I could direct you to ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen – that kind of thing.”</p>
<p>She slams her hands down on the counter. “That won’t work! I need more than that!”</p>
<p>A heating pad still in her hand, Clarke offers, “Have you tried heat?”</p>
<p>Raven rolls her eyes. “Have I tried heat?”</p>
<p>Clarke shrugs. “Sometimes it’s helpful. I think physical therapy would also do a lot for you.”</p>
<p>“Oh great. Everyone’s a doctor now.”</p>
<p>Clarke shrugs. “Actually, I am.”</p>
<p>Exasperated, Morgan shoos her. “Move along, Raven. I can’t do anything for you and I have other customers.”</p>
<p>She turns away from the counter, grumbling. “Go take a walk outside the fence, Morgan.”</p>
<p>“Will do!” she says cheerfully. She turns to Clarke. “What can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“I need more antibiotics. Different ones. Levofloxacin.”</p>
<p>“Same thing applies. I can’t give them to you without a prescription.”</p>
<p>“And just what were you doing on Saturday? Hm?”</p>
<p>“Saturday was different. Those meds are fair game. They’ve already been taken out of the system.”</p>
<p>Clarke tilts her head, trying to get a look behind Morgan. “Surely you have some back there already taken out of the system.”</p>
<p>She shifts to block Clarke’s line of vision. “I don’t.”</p>
<p>Trying to still the frustration in her, Clarke takes a deep breath through her nose. “I have to give her something. She’s coughing up blood now. My friend – she won’t make it without them.”</p>
<p>“Can’t you take her to a hospital?”</p>
<p>“Look, a lot of my patients don’t have that kind of luxury. I’m asking for antibiotics, not Oxycontin.”</p>
<p>She shifts her weight, debating. “What’s her name? Maybe I can put in a request from you and bypass the system. Make it look like a formal prescription.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “No. Like I told your friend on Saturday, I can’t do that.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“I just <em>can’t</em>, okay?” Clarke reaches in her pocket, pulling out the diamond bracelet, the gemstones turning iridescent in the fluorescent lighting. “What about this?”</p>
<p>The shimmering catches her attention. Morgan raises her eyebrows. “What about it?”</p>
<p>“It’s worth at least five times what I gave you for the clarithromycin. Take it. Sell it. Do whatever you want with it. It doesn’t mean anything to me if I have to watch her die.”</p>
<p>She presses her lips shut.</p>
<p>It’s low, but Clarke’s desperate. “It’ll buy a lot more than an apple.”</p>
<p>That cracks her. “Fine.” She takes the bracelet. “But this stays between us.”</p>
<p>She heaves a sigh of relief. “I promise.”</p>
<p>Morgan returns with a box of levofloxacin. “Do you need anything else? Cough suppressant for your friend or something? It’s on the house.”</p>
<p>“Actually, I’ll take about four of those candles.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The stars are fully out by the time Clarke makes it back to her apartment building. The lobby is dark and empty – no surprise there. She tries turning on the lights in the stairwell, but only two come on, leaving her in an unnerving kind of pale light. She dashes up the stairs, both to hurry back to Octavia and to avoid the creepy light, taking two at a time, trying not to bounce the glass candles on her way up.</p>
<p>She’s out of breath by the time she makes it to her apartment, but Wells standing in her living room looking at Bellamy makes her heart stop.</p>
<p>“So,” he trails. “Clarke. Do you want to tell me why this guy is standing in your living room at ten o’clock at night wearing my clothes?”</p>
<p>What’s she supposed to say to that? Has he seen Octavia? What’s Wells doing here anyway?</p>
<p>Her eyes flicker down to the dress bag lying on the sofa.</p>
<p>“Well,” Clarke begins, completely unsure of where she’s going, “he’s an old friend who was hit particularly hard by the…” She looks to Bellamy, standing behind Wells, begging for an answer as to why he’s here. <em>Fill in the blank!</em> He shakes his head, eyes as blank as her brain feels. “…housing market.”</p>
<p>Wells nods, clearly not believing a word of it. “So why’s he in my clothes?”</p>
<p>“His tenant kicked him out before he could go home and get his own things.”</p>
<p>Wells sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And him getting kicked out of his place is related to the housing market how?”</p>
<p>Clarke’s brain is about as useless as her phone at this point. “Um –”</p>
<p>“Look, I have too much respect for you, and myself for that matter, to play this game with you. Are you cheating on me or not?”</p>
<p>“No! No!” she says, reaching out to touch his arm but he flinches and steps away. “Wells.”</p>
<p>“Clarke.”</p>
<p>“No! He’s just a patient of mine. See?” Clarke puts her bag on the sofa and pulls out the box of levofloxacin. “Look! I’ve just been to pick up some medicine.”</p>
<p>“He’s not sick.” Wells takes the box from her. “There’s no prescription label either.”</p>
<p>Clarke winces.</p>
<p>“Why is there no label?”</p>
<p>“Oh, there isn’t?” Clarke takes the box from him and throws in in the bag. “The pharmacist must have forgot.”</p>
<p>“They don’t forget things like that.” He pulls her aside and lowers his voice. “What’s going on here? Honestly. He’s not sick. I have no idea why you have that with no prescription. Are you doing drugs?”</p>
<p>“It’s antibiotics, Wells. No one ever got high from fighting bacteria.”</p>
<p>He closes his eyes and takes a half step back, heading for the door. “I’m not doing this, Clarke.”</p>
<p>“Wells!”</p>
<p>“Be at the gala at eight. I’m not about to have the party derailed by the city’s favorite couple breaking up.”</p>
<p>“We’re breaking up?”</p>
<p>“Don’t sound so heartbroken. If you’re with him you were never that into me.” He opens the door. “Goodnight, Clarke.”</p>
<p>There it is. Her friend, her future, her life just walked out the door. She slides down the wall by the bookshelf. There’s no escaping execution now.</p>
<p>She can’t do anything but stare at her feet, her shoes still on and caked with mud and wet leaves.</p>
<p>A second pair of feet approaches wearing Well’s favorite yellow and white socks. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t look up. “Give Octavia one of those pills. An extra blanket, too. The power will be cut off at midnight.”</p>
<p>To his grace, he doesn’t inquire as to why. “Okay.”</p>
<p>He runs a glass of water from the tap and just as he’s about to start down the hallway Clarke asks, “Did he see her?”</p>
<p>He shakes his head. “No. I kept him in here.”</p>
<p>She unlaces her boots from her seated position. “Good.” She halfheartedly throws her boots into the shoe tray behind the door. “How is she?”</p>
<p>“No more coughing spells, but Clarke –”</p>
<p>She looks up at him. “But Clarke what?”</p>
<p>“If we left, if <em>I</em> left, would that bring him back?”</p>
<p>“Who even knows? Damage is already done.”</p>
<p>“I’ll go somewhere else. Really.” He pauses, as if he’s not sure if Clarke has realized this. “You’re not going to survive the trial without his favor.”</p>
<p>Clarke snatches the pill and glass of water from his hand, spilling water on both of their socks. “If you’re not going to give this to her, I will.”</p>
<p>He just steps to the side and doesn’t say anything, lingering in the doorway of her bedroom while she gives Octavia the medicine. “I’ll leave tonight.”</p>
<p>Her back still to him, she says firmly, “You will not.”</p>
<p>“Why not? Me staying here won’t bring Wells back.”</p>
<p>“You leaving doesn’t help your sister. We’ll take shifts watching over her. If she starts coughing like that again wake me up.” She stands up. “This is the last conversation about either of you leaving and that’s final. Now go to bed. I’ll take first watch.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In all the time Octavia and Bellamy had been at her house, they had all slept in the same room. Clarke often took the floor at the foot of the bed and Bellamy slept with Octavia in her tiny single bed, and they clung to each other in their sleep in a way that broke her heart. She couldn’t imagine what their childhoods must’ve been like to form a bond so deep.</p>
<p>Yet despite not leaving her side for nearly a week, last night was the first night he spent outside of her bed, even outside of her room, and instead he slept on the couch in the living room, hugging one of her throw pillows. Clarke sat up with Octavia until she couldn’t take it anymore, until her stomach’s cravings or her body would give out, and she had to eat or sleep in order to continue. Without much food in the house, Clarke went to wake Bellamy so he could take his shift.</p>
<p>Clarke woke up around three in the afternoon. She spent too long dwelling on fear and anger last night, though both stemmed from the same source – her impending doom – and now waking up to the scent of Bellamy on her afghan, knowing his presence in this house is what undid her relationship with Wells, just made her upset. Was it her choice to accept him into her home? Yes. But she didn’t expect Wells to show up on her doorstep and let himself in.</p>
<p>“Do you want breakfast?”</p>
<p>Clarke stretches. “Is Octavia okay?”</p>
<p>“She’s been good. I got her to eat some canned carrots and I was a little late with the cough medicine, but there’s been no more blood.” He shifts his weight, his back against the stove, and repeats, “Do you want breakfast? I’ll make you something.”</p>
<p>Clarke pops her shoulders, fingers, and toes, trying to undo the stiffness in her body from sleeping on the couch. “Yeah, I guess so.” She crosses the living room to the kitchen and plops down at the kitchen table.</p>
<p>Bellamy brings her a cup of cold green tea. “Caffeine.”</p>
<p>Clarke bought the green tea to try it and absolutely hated it, but she doesn’t tell him that, too tired to fight with him so early in her morning, and besides, the gesture was kind. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>He plates a banana and orange – pretty much the only food they can make without electricity – arranging the slices in a smile, a clear attempting at smoothing over last night, although it wasn’t really his fault. “Hear anything from the prince?”</p>
<p>Clarke sips her tea with contempt for the bitter leaf juice. “He’s just the Chancellor’s son. He has no claim to the office.”</p>
<p>Bellamy grins, attempting at levity. “Jaha’s basically a king.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t amuse her. “We’re governed by totalitarian democracy.” She puts her cup down, looking at her smiling breakfast. She picks up an orange slice. “And no, I haven’t. I don’t have a working phone anymore, remember?”</p>
<p>He scrunches up his nose, wincing. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>Clarke chews her way through the orange’s fibrous texture. “It doesn’t matter. Breaking up spares him the pain, I guess. Or lessens it anyway. We’ve been best friends since we were three. I don’t imagine he’ll take my death well either way. At least he’s not pouring his future into me anymore.”</p>
<p>He taps his fingers against his cup of tea. “Doesn’t the lobby have a public phone?”</p>
<p>Clarke hadn’t thought of that. “Wait. It does.”</p>
<p>“Go call him.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “I don’t have enough points.”</p>
<p>He mulls this over. “Isn’t there supposed to be a someone running the front desk? Would they loan you a few?”</p>
<p>“Mm, maybe. He’s just so rarely ever there.”</p>
<p>“Go try anyway.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t have much to lose at this point. “I think I will.”</p>
<p>The lobby is empty of residents, which leads Clarke to wonder if anyone else lives here anymore, though she wouldn’t blame them because this place is a dump. Clarke’s hopes are revived when she sees a young man leave the back office and duck down under the front desk in search of something. He’s not the usual doorman, but she doesn’t care. He’s here and he hopefully has a positive bank account.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” Clarke says, peering over the front desk. “But I was wondering if you have any extra points you would lend me so I can make a phone call.”</p>
<p>He bonks his head on the desk, startled, and swears. He pops up and looks at her, his eyes so intensely blue they startle Clarke too. “Do I know you?”</p>
<p>She points to the stairwell. “I’m a resident.” She extends her hand. “Clarke Griffin.”</p>
<p>He eyes her warily, then stands, extending his own hand. “John Murphy.” His eyes scan the desk quickly. “How much is a phone call?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Clarke walks over to the phone booth and looks it over for a price, but the sticker has worn off with time, making the number unclear. “I can’t read the sticker.”</p>
<p>He flips through the papers until Clarke returns to the desk. He pulls out his phone and scans his cornea, then turns it around to scan Clarke’s. TRANSFER COMPLETE appears on the screen. “There’s five.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, truly. You don’t know how much this means.”</p>
<p>Clarke picks up the phone, scans her thumbprint, and dials the number. It rings for what feels like ages before finally going to voicemail. She slams the phone on its holder. Wells is never without his phone and it’s never turned off.</p>
<p>“Geez,” he says from the desk. “Who hurt you?”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it.”</p>
<p>“Wait,” he says. “You’re the girl from TV. Yeah, yeah,” he snaps his fingers, thinking. “You’re dating the Chancellor’s son.” He grins maliciously, seeming to find joy in her troubles. “Trouble in paradise?”</p>
<p>She’s about two seconds from pulling out her hair. How hard is it to just answer the phone? It’s the lobby of a delict apartment building, it’s not like the caller ID displayed her name. “Shut up, John.”</p>
<p>He raises his eyebrows, amused at her temper rather than offended. “I prefer people to call me Murphy when they tell me to shut up.”</p>
<p>“They do that a lot, do they?” she grumbles. “Can’t imagine why.”</p>
<p>He leans forward, putting his elbows on the counter. “So what’d he do? Cheat on you? Cut you off funds? Pick out the wrong color for your wedding?”</p>
<p>“We’re not engaged and it’s not your business.”</p>
<p>“It’s a shame,” he sighs, flopping down in the desk chair, leaning back so far it might tip. “You could do so much better than him.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know anything about Wells.”</p>
<p>He raises his eyebrows. “No? Tell me then, who told his daddy my father stole medicine for me? I was twelve when they locked him outside.”</p>
<p>She takes another look at him. She’d remember eyes like that and she’d remember that attitude for sure. To top it off, his accent doesn’t match. “You didn’t grow up in Alpha.”</p>
<p>He shrugs. “Who said I did?”</p>
<p>“I’m not doing this. I have more important things to do.” She doesn’t stick around to chat, letting the heavy door to the stairwell slam behind her.</p>
<p>She hears him call after her, “Tell him John Murphy says hello, will ya?”</p>
<p>The carpet in the hallway is graying and stained, though the recently moved end tables in the hall prove it was once a beautiful royal blue. If she stays out here too long her allergies will act up, but still, she pauses outside her door to catch her breath and try to calm herself down. It’s nearing five and Octavia is due for another dose of antibiotics. She can only imagine the scolding she would get from her mother if she showed up to a patient’s beside angry and ruffled.</p>
<p>Entering the apartment, her heart does a little leap for joy.</p>
<p>“Where did this come from?” Octavia asks, Clarke’s dress bag half unzipped where it hangs on the coatrack. “I would’ve remembered seeing something so beautiful.”</p>
<p>“You’re up,” Clarke gasps, a little in disbelief. “How are you feeling? Do you need to sit down? Take it easy, Octavia, and don’t overdo it.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she promises. “You sound like Bell.”</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes scan the apartment, panicking internally when she doesn’t see him. Did he leave anyway? “Where is he?”</p>
<p>She yawns, her strength zapped from nearly a week in bed. “He’s in the shower.”</p>
<p>She breathes out a sigh of relief. “Oh.”</p>
<p>She turns back to the dress. “This is exquisite. My mother used to be a seamstress but she never brought home anything this pretty. Usually just coveralls and the occasional dress shirt. She sewed reflective stripes on for construction workers. Factory district stuff.”</p>
<p>Clarke pulls off her shoes, unable to meet her eyes. “My, uh, boyfriend brought me that yesterday. It’s for a gala on Saturday.”</p>
<p>Octavia looks impressed. “Who’s this boyfriend?” she runs her fingers over the beadwork. “I bet he’s dripping with money. No offense,” she gestures to the apartment, “but you clearly aren’t.”</p>
<p>“Uh, it’s Wells Jaha. Or was. I don’t know.” Clarke forces a laugh. “Yesterday was difficult.”</p>
<p>“Have you tried it on?”</p>
<p>“No. I haven’t even really looked at it yet.” Clarke unzips the rest of the bag and takes in the beauty of the garment for herself. A low cut cowl neck with skinny straps in a nude color, nearly the same shade as Clarke’s skin, and the entire thing is dripping with jewels, making iridescent colors even in the dusky yellow lighting from the living room windows. Clarke knows the lighting in the ballroom and the intention of the design is clear – for Clarke to fade away and become a glowing, shifting pillar of light. Wells always called her radiant.</p>
<p>“Oh, you have to try it on,” Octavia sighs. “Just for me.”</p>
<p>“You’ll see it tomorrow,” Clarke promises, zipping up the dress bag. “That is if I decide to go.”</p>
<p>Octavia sighs in disappointment. “Oh, why wouldn’t you go?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Clarke,” Bellamy chimes in, appearing from the hall in fresh clothes with a towel in hand. He locks eyes with her, pressing, knowing what is bound to happen if she stays home. “Why wouldn’t you go?”</p>
<p>She shrugs. “I didn’t want to go in the first place.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you have to,” Octavia says. “Let me see the dress on at the very least.”</p>
<p>Clarke doesn’t even want to know how much the dress cost to make. She could probably buy out the entire pharmacy at full price for what it cost. It feels wrong, like stealing, to wear something so expensive to one event for a few hours. Clarke’s heartstrings tug at her anyway, reminding her that Octavia has had several close calls with death in the last week and this is such a small thing to give her. The dress is already made, the money already spent, and the real crime would be to let such a pretty thing go to waste. “Alright. Both of you wait here for the reveal.”</p>
<p>In her room, alone for the first time in what feels like forever, she strips off her t-shirt and pajama pants – an outfit she would normally be embarrassed to be seen in outside of her home at five o’clock in the afternoon, but what does she have to lose at this point anyway? So the doorman saw her in her jammies. So what?</p>
<p>Seeing herself naked in the mirror is startling. She’s never been able to gorge herself on her government paycheck, but she always had enough food for one. Working with half a paycheck to feed three has taken its toll, eating away at the shape she waited for so long during puberty. That’s what fat’s true purpose is, she knows that, and she knows its why women are built the way they are. It’s nature’s way of ensuring survival of the human race through even the harshest conditions. Its why women survive famines over men. People come in every shape and size, but this isn’t Clarke’s.</p>
<p>“Uh, the dress doesn’t fit,” she calls out, knowing they can hear her through the paper thin walls.</p>
<p>“Too short? Tight? Loose?”</p>
<p>“Too loose,” she calls back.</p>
<p>“Put it on anyway!” Octavia calls back.</p>
<p>If she had makeup on to cover up her exhaustion, and if her hair was clean and swept up off her neck, and maybe if she had a little jewelry, Clarke could almost imagine herself, her old self, her Alpha self. The woman she was before that mother came into her clinic, before her heart finally won out over her head, before she kissed Wells not out of love, but out of obligation to save her skin. That Clarke had more money than she knew what to do with, an obscene amount of money she now realizes, most of it inherited from her parents. She was just starting to earn her own money and her own independence. She was fearless and strong. Now she’s scared and hungry, putting on a fashion show for two strangers she won’t see past Monday.</p>
<p>She walks into the living room, the gemstones gliding across her wooden floors with that unique sound she’s always relished, giving the wearer confidence in even the worst situation. She stands in front of the couch and gives a slight twirl, making sure to keep hold on the back of the dress so the front doesn’t slip down. “What do you think?”</p>
<p>Octavia gasps. “You look incredible. How do they get the diamonds to sparkle like that?”</p>
<p>Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>The corners of Bellamy’s lips pick up. “Turn around again.” She does as asked, letting one arm go out for added flair. He tilts his head. “Do you have sewing equipment? A sewing machine? Needle and thread? Anything?”</p>
<p>“I think I have an emergency repair kit somewhere. Why?”</p>
<p>He nods, smiling. “I think I can fix your dress.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, no. Don’t bother. Like I said, I’m not going.”</p>
<p>He shakes his head. “No. You’re going.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think –”</p>
<p>“You’re going,” he says more insistently. Clarke’s not about to be forced into doing anything. Noticing her expression, he softens his voice. “Please go, Clarke. It might work out in your favor.”</p>
<p>“Look,” Clarke shows him, pulling the dress out from her skin. “It gaps too much. It’d take forever to sew by hand.”</p>
<p>He stands up. “Show me where it is. The worst thing that happens is you stay home with a half sewn dress, which is basically what you’re already planning on doing. At least this way you have a chance.”</p>
<p>A chance. A chance to attend the gala. A chance to repair things with Wells. A chance to survive the trial.</p>
<p>“Okay,” she agrees. “It’s in a box in my room.”</p>
<p>Octavia doesn’t follow them in there and instead says she’s going to lie down on the couch for a change of scenery. Standing in her room in the fading sunlight in a fancy dress with a boy feels so familiar and foreign all at once.  Memories of she and Wells coming home after the Chancellor’s second inauguration ceremony hits her particularly hard. She still lived in Alpha then, and her floors were made of luxurious white carpet and she had a plethora of pens and charcoal and paint on her desk and she had no need to buy art to decorate, her own decorated every open space. They had spent the morning sneaking a flask of whisky into every drink they had as a dare, barely keeping it together for the cameras. Her mother scolded her for her behavior, despite Clarke being in her twenties, but she didn’t care. By the end of the day, they were so giggly they barely made it up the stairs.</p>
<p>Bellamy is shorter than Wells, though he still towers over her. He stands there in Wells’ clothes, but he holds himself differently than Wells does. Both have brown eyes, but Wells’ are so full of innocent light, happy and bubbly, while Bellamy’s regard her with worry and sadness, a look Clarke thinks doesn’t ever leave him. But he also looks at her with something else – empathy.</p>
<p>“The sewing box?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“To fix your dress?”</p>
<p>“Oh.” In her top dresser drawer is a small red box with a clear lid and an assortment of colored threads. “I hope this will work.”</p>
<p>He takes the box from her. “I’ll do my best.” He has her turn and face the mirror, making sure she can see the adjustments he makes. “I’ll take up the straps first.”</p>
<p>“Did your mom teach you?”</p>
<p>“She did. The basics anyway. In the little time at home she had,” he adds.</p>
<p>His fingers slip under the strap of her dress, skimming the back of her shoulder. Clarke’s reminded of another set of hands, although they didn’t bring the dress closer to her skin. “Must’ve been lonely.”</p>
<p>“I had Octavia,” he says simply. “What do you do? Any special hobbies or unknown talents?”</p>
<p>Clarke shrugs. “I –”</p>
<p>“Don’t.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, lingering just a little too long. He shakes his head. “Sorry. Don’t want to stick you.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Sorry. Um, uh – what did you ask me?”</p>
<p>He fastens a pin in the second strap before kneeling at her side to take in the sides of the dress, pinching the fabric together just under the side of her side of her bust. “Lift your arm for me.”</p>
<p>Clarke does, praying her deodorant is working. She doesn’t know what to do with the lower half of her arm, so her hand just lies weirdly on her shoulder.</p>
<p>“I asked if you had any special hobbies. You know, besides saving lives.”</p>
<p>Clarke forces a smile, trying to just accept the compliment and move on, but she’s having a hard time ignoring her blush. “I draw,” she squeaks out in a voice she’d rather die than hear herself speak in ever again. She clears her throat. “Or I used to before the whole twins debacle.”</p>
<p>“Draw me something sometime?” He moves to her right side and she lifts up her arm, hoping this will all be over soon because she can’t remember the last time anyone made her this flustered. Maybe it’s because all her tailors were in their seventies. Maybe it’s because Octavia isn’t in here. Maybe it’s because he’s staring at her chest with what she can only hope is a professional perspective as he inspects that the cowl neck swoops just right. He steps back. “How does that look to you?”</p>
<p>“Fine,” she chirps.</p>
<p>“Okay. I guess now I need you to change so I can start working on it.” He turns to leave but Clarke has to stop him and ask the one thing that might actually make her cheeks and ears set on fire.</p>
<p>“You have to unzip it,” she blurts out. She rubs her forehead. <em>Have a little grace, Clarke. Sheesh. </em>“I can’t reach the zipper when the dress is fitted.”</p>
<p>“Right.” He ducks his head. Clarke puts her hands over the front of the dress because he is not getting a peep show no matter how flustered he makes her. He unzips the dress slowly and Clarke thinks she can feel his hand shake. This <em>definitely</em> isn’t Wells, who has every confidence in the world.              </p>
<p><em>Different activity, Clarke,</em> she reminds herself.</p>
<p>“That’s good, thank you,” she says when he has the zipper three quarters of the way down. “I can do it from here.” Or at least she hopes she can, because she doesn’t think she can take the weirdly intimate tension of him unzipping her dress any longer.</p>
<p>He nods, not saying anything, and quickly shuts the door behind him, leaving her to stare at herself in the mirror, dress half off, and wonder what exactly he just did to her head.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Next to the pot of makeup brushes is the invitation, its pretty ribbon coiled on the floor, the cardstock edges worn from Clarke’s inability to stop touching it, desperately trying to resist the urge to tear it to shreds as if she could throw the whole party away.</p>
<p>Sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror, Clarke blends dark brown eyeshadow into oblivion, trying to come up with something decent, dramatic, and soft. She honestly has no idea what any of that means, only that she could tell any of the makeup artists in Alpha what that means and they would work their magic and give her exactly that. She doesn’t think there are any makeup artists in Factory even if she could afford one.</p>
<p>Attempting a dramatic flick of eyeliner, Clarke only succeeds in drawing a shaky line at the corner of her eye. She threw up twice this morning out of anxiety, though it was at 3 AM during her watch-Octavia shift. If anyone was awake to hear it, they’ve been kind enough not to mention it.</p>
<p>Octavia sits next to the mirror with a can of cold soup and a blanket around her shoulders. She’s overjoyed to see her eating and out of bed. She knows watching someone get ready for a night of splendor must be fascinating to someone who’s never experienced it, but quite frankly Octavia’s watchful eye is only adding to Clarke’s heebie jeebies.</p>
<p>“Last stitch,” Bellamy announces from his seat on her bed, looking satisfied with himself. His fingertips look almost bruised from the long hours spent sewing and his nails have quite a few scratches from the needle. “All I have to do is tie the knot.”</p>
<p>Clarke caps the eyeliner after fixing it the best she can and searches through a box of lipsticks before settling on a peachy shade. She considered going for red with such a versatile dress, but thought maybe going for a look of feminine innocence would serve her better in the long run. “Now if I could just work up the nerve to put it on. If I put it on, I’ll end up going, and I’m not sure I have it in me.”</p>
<p>“You do,” Octavia reassures. “You’ll look wonderful.”</p>
<p>Clarke nods, trying to take her word for it. “Why don’t you pick out some jewelry while I do my hair? The jewelry box is on the dresser.”</p>
<p>Octavia looks bewildered. “Me?”</p>
<p>“Yes, you,” Clarke laughs.</p>
<p>“But I don’t know anything about what you wear to parties like this.”</p>
<p>Clarke wraps a piece of hair around her hand, trying to go for some kind of updo. “That doesn’t matter. Just pick out something you think looks nice with the dress. I’ll be wearing my hair up, so choose some big earrings. Other than that, pick whatever you want.”</p>
<p>Octavia spent a long time holding up different pieces to the dress, fussing over getting it <em>just</em> right, marveling at Clarke’s collection of diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and pearls. As Clarke put the finishing touch of hairspray on her hair, Octavia announced that she was done.</p>
<p>Clarke takes a deep breath, glancing at the clock, which reads 7:24. She has a twenty minute bus ride to catch and hopefully if she gets there early she can find Wells and talk some sense into him. “I guess this is it.”</p>
<p>They leave to give her some privacy and she takes a moment to run her fingers over the dress, feeling the bumps of each hand sewn gem. She strips off her jeans and unbuttons her shirt – thankful she still has a shirt like that – and folds them neatly at the foot of the bed, trying to delay time.</p>
<p>She starts with jewelry. Octavia picked out a beautiful pair of drop earrings and a delicate gold bracelet with a matching ring. Clarke puts on the bracelet and ring without a second thought, but her hand stops over the earrings – a gift from Wells last month for their six month anniversary. She debates for a moment changing the earrings, but Octavia spent so long picking them out, she puts them in anyway and tries not to remember where they came from.</p>
<p>She steps into the dress and pulls it up over her hips, now fitting snugly enough to be flattering. The back still unzipped, Clarke rummages around in the bottom of her closet for shoes and settles on a simple pair of nude heels. Not quite the dedicated shoe closet she once had.</p>
<p>She stands up from her bed, now four inches taller, and looks at herself in the mirror. With her hair and makeup done – though not as well as it would be if she had her usual host of professionals – she looks like her old self. Factory Clarke is gone and Alpha Clarke has returned for the last time. One last party. One last night of drinks and cake. One last hurrah.</p>
<p>She swallows the knot in her throat. “Can someone zip me up?”</p>
<p>Octavia takes one step in the room and audibly gasps. “Clarke.”</p>
<p>“I love the jewelry you chose.” Clarke bites her tongue. She didn’t know. “Especially the earrings.”</p>
<p>Octavia zips her up. “Just look at you.” She sighs. “Oh, I wish I could come.”</p>
<p>“That would get you both killed,” Bellamy says, leaning against the doorframe.</p>
<p>Octavia’s face falls. “Why would they kill her?” She turns to Clarke. “Why would they kill you?”</p>
<p>“I –,” she stammers. “I have court on Monday. It’s um – it’s nothing to do with you, I promise. I won’t tell them anything about you.”</p>
<p>“What did you do?”</p>
<p>Pressing the topic, a reality she will have to face in the next forty-eight hours feels like sticking your hand in an open wound.</p>
<p>“She let siblings live,” Bellamy volunteers, taking the pressure off Clarke. “Not us. Someone else’s kids.”</p>
<p>Clarke looks over at the clock, trying to break away from the conversation. “I hate to leave you both but I’m afraid it’s time to go.” She turns to Bellamy. “Make sure she gets her antibiotics. You can’t forget those. Make whatever you can find in the kitchen. Most importantly, don’t leave the apartment.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” he chuckles. “Will do.” He stops her on the way out the door. “You look nice, by the way.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“You look nice, by the way.”</em>
</p>
<p>Clarke’s entire world, enclosed within these black marble walls, went past in what felt like a blip. She stared out the window with drizzling rain sticking to the glass and watched the districts pass by. Factory. Farm. Hydra. Mecha. Bellamy’s words buzzed in her head like a bee, only interrupted by the bus driver – who had plenty to say about Clarke looking so fancy yet taking public transportation – telling them they had arrived in Alpha.</p>
<p>Clarke exits the bus and hopes the humidity won’t completely destroy her hair as she walks to the Chancellor’s statehouse. <em>You look nice</em>. Octavia had all but called her regal and had really boosted Clarke’s mood. Wells called her radiant all the time. Bellamy himself had worked for hours last night working on her dress, and all he had to say was she looked nice?</p>
<p>Clarke gives her invitation to the guard stationed outside the statehouse and he lets her in without question, having seen her show up here to see Wells hundreds of times before. She hid her identity any way she could in Factory but here in Alpha, she was the Clarke she remembered and they treated her as such.</p>
<p>The statehouse opens up into a grand foyer, decorated with paintings of the Jaha family, including Well’s mother who passed away from cancer five years ago. Arkadia had no term limits, and Chancellor Jaha had been reelected twice, though they have always been wealthy and have had family portraits done each year. As she walks down the main hallway, she watches Wells grow up, from a newborn baby to a twenty year old man. She remembers their mud pies at six, their races and games at ten, their past curfew phone calls at fourteen. She watches his face grow and change, reminiscing on each version of Wells she knew each year.</p>
<p>At the end of the main hallway is the Council room, the door propped open to let air circulate after being mopped. Only a few spots here and there are still wet and shiny, so she deems it safe to let herself in. She wants to know what it’s like in this room where six Councilors and Chancellor decide on the fate of every Arkadian citizen.</p>
<p>Name plates are attached to the back of every chair. She searches them all until she finds the one she’s looking for.</p>
<p><em>Councilor Abigail Griffin</em>.</p>
<p>Clarke pulls out the rolling chair and plops herself down in it, relaxing into the faux leather cushions. She leans back, careful not to lean so far as to tip it, and surveys the empty table, wondering what it would feel like to vote for her daughter’s death.</p>
<p>She wouldn’t really do that, right? She would vote in opposition of Clarke’s execution, right? Clarke ponders the question with a sour taste in her mouth. The fact that she’s not certain of the answer hurts.</p>
<p>Clarke would rather hide out in here by herself, but the clock is ticking and she needs to try to find Wells. He’s usually early to these things, so she makes her way to the ballroom, practically dragging her feet in dread.</p>
<p>As soon as she opens the doors, it’s clear no expense has been spared.</p>
<p>Tables take up most of the room, leaving a dance floor for later in front of the stage. Crisp white linen covers the chairs and tables and each has a floral centerpiece made of blue hydrangeas. Blue napkins are folded in triangles on the plates and each chair has a blue ribbon tied to it. Clarke goes to look for her seat, finding it at a front table, with her mother’s chair on her right and Wells on her left. Other high ranking officials are at her table too, including Councilor Kane and the Chancellor himself. Great.</p>
<p>Clarke takes her seat as the ballroom is mostly empty still and they seem to be running behind on decorating. A TV screen is being rigged to be lowered into view on the stage, and Clarke recognizes one of the workers as the girl with the leg brace from the pharmacy. Someone must’ve given her a refill after all because she seems to be working just fine. Opioids can be so beneficial when used properly. Unfortunately, they are also highly addictive.</p>
<p>Clarke glances down at her plate, noticing a sprinkle of silver and blue infinity symbol confetti surrounding it as well as a card. The front displays the logo and the slogan “Seek Higher Things”, but the back has a question for her to fill out.</p>
<p>
  <em>Please turn your answer into the box by the stage by 9 PM.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>What is the root cause of humanity’s problems?</em>
</p>
<p>May as well answer the question now. Clarke picks up one of the pens on the table. What is the root cause of humanities problems?</p>
<p>There are a thousand answers really. One could say greed. Or power. Greed and the desire to be worshipped as a savior led the cult leader who built this city to amass the wealth and resources to build it. But also, it preserved humanity when it would have otherwise been completely wiped out, so there’s that. She’s just glad he wasn’t inside at the time of the bombs. What else could it be? One could also say hate, which leads to the violence she sees come through her clinic. But would the hate really be there if people were treated fairly, given second chances, and a good start to life? Poverty is cyclical, and it’s hard to expect moral excellence to grow when you refuse to be willing to nurture it. So what is it then?</p>
<p>Then it dawns on Clarke. Who creates greed? Who wants control? Who creates violence and hatred? Who turns their back on those in need?</p>
<p>People.</p>
<p>Can she really say that? Who will read these cards? Is it safe to admit that? It feels like saying that means there is no hope for mankind, and that everyone is doomed to suffer at the hands of others all their days. But isn’t that what they’re doing to her for letting love and compassion guide her actions? Six letters may seal the deal, but they deserve to know how cruel and unfair they’ve been.</p>
<p>Clarke crosses the room and slips her card in the box.</p>
<p>“Excuse me.” A woman in her late twenties approaches Clarke and asks, “Are you Dr. Griffin?”</p>
<p>She looks around the room. “Well, yes, technically, but I think you’re probably looking for my mother.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “No, I’m looking for you. I’m Becca Franco, which you’ve probably already guessed given that this is my event,” she smiles broadly, gesturing to the decorations that cover every surface and display her corporate logo. Clarke wonders if she knows how many schools this one event could’ve funded. “Anyway. I work with people from many different parts of the city for many of my projects, and I wanted to thank you for what you did for one of my pharmacists.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you a billionaire? Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, paid her a living wage to take care of her kid?”</p>
<p>“I am worth quite some money, yes,” she explains, “but for the record, most of it isn’t in actual currency and is invested in my projects.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think you should’ve saved enough to pay your employees?”</p>
<p>She tilts her head. “You’re not quite the rich Alpha sheep I expected. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected it at all, given your generosity.” She motions to the table. “Come. Let’s sit.”</p>
<p>Clarke sits. “I did grow up in Alpha but I’m afraid that’s where your metaphor ends.”</p>
<p>“Interesting,” she muses. “What happened to your money?”</p>
<p>She crosses her arms. “Is that the point of this conversation?”</p>
<p>“No,” Becca corrects herself. “I’m always looking for outstanding people to join my team, and I feel you are one of those outstanding people. I just had to see for myself. I’m offering you a job.”</p>
<p>Clarke snorts. “Good luck with that.”</p>
<p>Her face falls, clearly not used to hearing no. “You don’t want it?”</p>
<p>“No, no, it’s not that. It’s that there’s no point in hiring me because I’ll be dead by the end of Monday.”</p>
<p>She furrows her brow, genuinely concerned. “Why?”</p>
<p>“I’m out on bail for treason.” She shakes her head. “They’re not going to let me go for that.”</p>
<p>Clarke has never seen anyone so excited to know they’re in the midst of a traitor. “Wait, are you Jake Griffin’s daughter?”</p>
<p>“I am, but different charge.”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t matter. If you’re anything like him, and from what I’ve seen you’re everything like him, you’re exactly the type of person I want.”</p>
<p>“Dad worked for you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Jake? For six or seven years. One of the best employees I had.”</p>
<p>Clarke’s stunned. “I thought he worked for the Council.”</p>
<p>“Most of my employees have second jobs too. A lot of my projects are,” she tilts her head, hesitating. “Well let’s just say the Council wouldn’t approve. But I don’t work for the Council. I work for humanity.”</p>
<p>Clarke points to the sign above the stage. “I take it you have it all worked out then, huh?”</p>
<p>Becca grins. “I believe I do.”</p>
<p>Just then, the doors open, revealing Wells, dressed to the nines in a black suit and bow tie, accented with blue pocket square for the occasion, scanning the room.</p>
<p>“Ah, there’s lover boy,” Becca says. Before Clarke has time to correct her, she says, “Tell you what. If I can save you from execution, promise to come work for me.” She extends her hand. “I’ll have a job for you.”</p>
<p>Clarke takes it. Becca is her last hope at survival, and if she can save her, what does she have to lose? She trusts her dad, and he would never work for someone corrupt. “Deal.”</p>
<p>Becca shakes her hand. “I’m holding you to that.”</p>
<p>Becca leaves to attend to other matters and leaves Clarke sitting at the table alone. Had her Dad really worked for Becca? Her philosophy of working on behalf of humanity did align with his. It would explain some of the unanswered questions she’d had for years, but it poses a much bigger one: Why didn’t he tell them? Another thought comes to her. Did her mother know?</p>
<p>“Clarke.” Too dazed to hear him, Wells taps her shoulder. “Clarke.”</p>
<p>She looks up. “Wells.”</p>
<p>He nods to the other side of the room. “Come on. We have pictures to take.”</p>
<p>She stands up, launching into the speech she prepared on the bus ride here. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”</p>
<p>He straightens his tie and doesn’t look at her, only continues walking to the photographers. “I wouldn’t want to tell my boyfriend I’m cheating on them either. Pretty earrings by the way. Almost looks like something I would pick out.”</p>
<p>She stops and grabs his arm. “I’m not cheating on you. I never was.”</p>
<p>“Well he’s not an old friend. You would’ve said something about him before if he was. I’ve never heard you talk of a Bellamy, ever.”</p>
<p>“He told you his name?”</p>
<p>Wells rolls his eyes and starts walking again. “I cannot wait until this thing is over.”</p>
<p>“I was helping him out. He came into my clinic. I couldn’t let him just walk away. You know the people I work for are in hard situations.” Clarke struggles to keep up with his pace. “You always said you admired my heart, Wells.”</p>
<p>He takes her hand as they approach the backdrop. “Doesn’t mean I wanted you giving it to anyone else.”</p>
<p>Clarke does her best to smile for the cameras and pretend as though nothing is amiss. Wells navigates the cameras like a true professional. Despite how much he’s clearly hurting, he holds her close and pretends as though nothing is amiss for the media, like they’re still the city’s most loved sweethearts.</p>
<p>As soon as they walk away though, he walks straight out the doors without a word, leaving Clarke all alone as people begin to pour in. She finds a table for the servers and downs a glass of champagne from a tray and takes another before anyone has to chance to notice.</p>
<p>Clarke makes her way back to her seat where she is soon joined by her second least favorite person in the world right now.</p>
<p>Her mother gives a curt nod. “Clarke.”</p>
<p>She mirrors her. “Mom.”</p>
<p>Her other tablemates soon find their seats as well, just as dinner is served. Councilor Kane shares a look with Chancellor Jaha. He pretends to shiver.</p>
<p>Her mother closes her eyes slowly. “Not now, Kane.”</p>
<p>He interlaces his fingers on the table. “Do I detect some issues in the Griffin household?”</p>
<p>She doesn’t meet his eyes. “Clarke lives in her own place now.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Where do you live now, Clarke?”</p>
<p>Clarke takes another sip of champagne. “Factory.”</p>
<p>He gives a look of shock and disgust. “Factory?”</p>
<p>“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>He cuts into his steak, laughing. “I just can’t imagine why anyone would ever move there. Not someone who has it made here in Alpha, anyway. Educated, good family, good job. Such a comfortable life.”</p>
<p>Clarke stabs a carrot, shrugging. “It’s almost like human beings live there and they deserve healthcare.”</p>
<p>“Of course they do. I’m just saying most people don’t leave their district is all.”</p>
<p>“Maybe they would if the districts weren’t divided by social class.”</p>
<p>Her mother sighs, exasperated. “Clarke,” she warns.</p>
<p>He regards her over a glass of water. “They’re not divided by class.”</p>
<p>Clarke tilts her head. “They’re divided by class.”</p>
<p>“Enough, both of you,” the Chancellor says. He glances down at his watch. “The presentation should begin any moment.”</p>
<p>Her mother grabs her arm and whispers harshly. “What has gotten into you?”</p>
<p>“I’m not wasting my life’s work, remember?” Clarke pulls her arm back. “Except it’s more than that. I care about those people, Mom. The Council clearly doesn’t or it wouldn’t be in the condition it’s in.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she cares about those people alright,” Wells mutters.</p>
<p>“Wells!” Clarke huffs. “I have apologized and told you the truth! What else do you want me to do?”</p>
<p>“You haven’t said a single word that wasn’t a lie, Clarke!”</p>
<p>The Chancellor frowns. “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>Wells turns to his dad. “She’s cheating on me with a guy from Factory District.”</p>
<p>“Is that true?”</p>
<p>Clarke takes a deep breath and exhales through her nose. “I direct you back to the fact that Factory District is the poorest district in the city. It’s racked with violence and poverty and a host of other problems that could be fixed if you would just try. He came to my clinic and he needed more help than I could give him outpatient. He’s afraid of hospitals so I said he could stay at my place until he gets better. Okay? That’s it.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like you have a squatter,” Councilor Kane chimes in.</p>
<p>“We’re friends. That’s it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, friends in my clothes.”</p>
<p>“That’s low, Clarke.”</p>
<p>She throws her hands up. “Is it Attack-Clarke-Griffin-For-Caring Hour or something? Why don’t we just speed up Monday’s trial while we’re at it? Let’s keep the energy going.”</p>
<p>Councilor Kane almost chokes on his steak. “<em>You’re</em> the treason case on Monday?” Her mother puts her face in her hands. The Chancellor rubs a thumb over his eyebrow. Wells just stares at his plate. “You all knew?”</p>
<p>“Kind of a hard secret to keep,” Wells says.</p>
<p>“But we’re trying to keep it as quiet as possible for Abby’s sake,” the Chancellor whispers.</p>
<p>Councilor Kane shakes his head. “And what are you planning to do when she’s executed?”</p>
<p>The Chancellor holds up a hand. “<em>If</em>. She gets a fair trial just like everyone else.”</p>
<p>“It’s <em>treason</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s a treason <em>charge</em>. I’ll have you removed if you can’t be subjective, Kane.”</p>
<p>He points to Clarke’s mother. “Is she voting?”</p>
<p>She nods. “I am.”</p>
<p>Councilor Kane looks baffled. “Surely you see the problem in that, or do I have to spell it out for you, Jaha?”</p>
<p>“If she believes herself to be able to be subjective, I believe her. She wasn’t involved with the case so technically I can’t remove her.”</p>
<p>“Clarke’s her daughter, Jaha.”</p>
<p>“You sure don’t make me feel like it,” Clarke mumbles.</p>
<p>“Enough.” She turns to Clarke. “I swore I would defend the best interests of the city and I will uphold that, even if you won’t.”</p>
<p>Feedback echoes through the ballroom from the microphone, interrupting the cutting words Clarke wants to say to her mother. “Can everyone hear me okay?”</p>
<p>Somewhere in the crowd someone gives a whoop and a, “We love you, Becca!” earning a cheer from the audience.</p>
<p>“Excellent, thank you.” She adjusts the microphone. “I hear the food has been wonderful tonight, although I wouldn’t know as I’ve barely had time to stop today!” She pauses, waiting for the audience’s laughter. “But that’s small beans compared to the much more pressing issues of the city. We all live here. We all know the iron thumb we must live under because it keeps us alive and in check. As a society, despite how advanced and civilized we may think we are, we still know the struggle simply to survive.”</p>
<p>That’s rich coming from someone with four university degrees by the age of eighteen and who lived in Alpha all her life. Becca doesn’t know struggle until she’s seen the situations people are really out here trying to live in. Her mind wanders back to Bellamy and Octavia and she hopes they’re both doing okay back at home. What she wouldn’t give to be back lounging on her bed with Octavia right now while Bellamy reads to them. It was the calm before the storm.</p>
<p>“Now, I have asked you all to fill out these little cards,” she holds one up, “with your own personal opinion of what the cause is of humanity’s problems. My assistants and I have sorted them out by answer and many of you have written down similar answers and while yes, they are major problems we face, such as hate and corruption, they are only symptoms of a bigger problem. But one of you, and I hold the card here, has written down the right answer. It is truly the thing that plagues us most of all.” She gestures that the screen beside her be turned on. It displays two letters.</p>
<p><em>Us</em>.</p>
<p>“Who is man’s greatest enemy if not his fellow man? Who has the capability to be violent, hateful, corrupt, and injust?” She stops her walk across the stage for dramatic effect. “It’s us. It’s you. It’s me.” She finishes crossing the stage and stands at the opposite side of the screen. “So what then are we to do?” She taps a button on a hand held remote. The screen changes, revealing the word: A.L.I.E. “A.L.I.E. is a project I have been working on for a little over a year now. In 2148, I received note that we had a much more pressing issue than the problems you have listed today. We are running out of air.”</p>
<p>Clarke’s eyes bug out and she looks at her mom, who bears a similar stunned reaction. Others in the room seem worried, but both Clarke and her mother know the informant, because he ate dinner with them every night and said I love you often. It’s the very information he tried to get into the hands of the public and the Council deemed dangerous knowledge, and his act to further reach people got him killed for treason. Clarke’s father is dead because of the same thing Becca is saying here to everyone tonight. Clarke looks over at Jaha, her father’s best friend, and he seems unconcerned, as though this is all expected.</p>
<p>“A.L.I.E. has the capabilities to solve the two issues at once. You may well be familiar with Arkadia’s one child per family policy. The solution is similar. It is a list based on a carefully constructed algorithm. Using this list, we will carry out population reduction.” She holds her hands out, quieting the nervous chatter in the room. “I know, I know. It sounds heartless. Terrible. Gruesome. But allow me to reassure you, this is a kindness to you all. It ensures our survival until the day we are finally able to walk out those doors and repopulate Earth. It will happen one day, I promise you, but we need to survive in order to be able to do that and at this rate, we won’t see the end of next year, and the engineers need two years to fix this. Less people will allow us to turn down the oxygen production. Think of it as an honor to do your part in the continuation of the human race. And this way,” she adds with a grin, “there are no diapers to change.”</p>
<p>No one laughs. No one cracks a smile. Several burst into tears.</p>
<p>Her face falls. “If you are selected, and mind you the algorithm takes into account things like age, young and old, capabilities, and value to the community, death will be carried out quickly and painlessly. You will be given ample opportunity to arrange your affairs and say goodbye to family, and they may be there at your passing if you wish.”</p>
<p>It does nothing to console the crowd. Clarke lets out a shaky breath, grateful for once for the situation she’s in. If she dies on Monday, she doesn’t have to witness this. If she lives, she’ll be working for Becca, and surely that will protect her.</p>
<p>Clearly let down by the lack of enthusiasm, Becca continues. “The A.L.I.E. program will be launched at –”</p>
<p>She doesn’t get the chance to tell them, because the screen, connected to the city’s television network, suddenly cuts her program and displays a worried newscaster. “I bring devastating news to my fellow Arkadian citizens. An apartment building in Factory District caught fire earlier tonight, resulting in the most devastating fire in the city’s history to date. It had been reported that the air in Factory has become so difficult to breathe many are making the long journey to the shelters for the first time in decades in search of clean air in the O2 tanks, trying desperately to escape the dense smoke.” They cut to footage of the building, and Clarke begins to panic. It’s her apartment building, surrounded by firefighters trying to tame the blaze. <em>Bellamy. Octavia. Where are they? Did they get out?</em></p>
<p> The newscaster continues. “Firefighters are telling us that this kind of fire doesn’t occur naturally and police are now on the lookout for the arsonist. What’s of even greater interest though, are these two people fleeing the scene.” Clarke might actually throw up. They cut to a blurry image of Bellamy, practically dragging Octavia around the corner. She can only imagine what her lungs must feel like, barely recovering from pneumonia and having to rush down five flights of stairs. “The man in this image has been identified by the biometric database as Bellamy Blake, but here’s where it gets interesting. The girl with him is not in the database at all, meaning she is an Unregistered, and by the looks of it, possibly the oldest one ever. But get this,” she says as though this is the greatest tale of her life, “neither live in the building. Are they the arsonists? Tune in later for the eleven o’clock hour for an update on this shocking event.”</p>
<p>Her mother frowns. “Clarke, that’s –”</p>
<p>Wells slams his hands on the table. “That’s him.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“That’s the guy I saw standing in her apartment. That’s him. Bellamy Blake.” He turns to Clarke. “Who’s the chick? You been keeping her in there too? How many other wayward strays have you been keeping?”</p>
<p>She grits her teeth. “They’re not wayward strays. They’re human beings, Wells.”</p>
<p>The Chancellor’s mouth hangs open a little. “You’ve been keeping an Unregistered?”</p>
<p>She seals her mouth shut, refusing to further incriminate herself.</p>
<p>He motions to the guard posted along the wall. “Arrest her.”</p>
<p>His handcuffs already out without further question, he asks, “On what charge, sir?”</p>
<p>He sighs, shaking his head, the act painful to carry out. “It’s the same principle, Clarke. I’m sorry.” He looks up at the guard. “Treason.”</p>
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